


The Once and Future....

by nocturneequuis



Series: Manna from Heaven, Whiskey from Hell [3]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Camelot!, Gen, Ineffable Idiots, M/M, backstory fic, birth of the arrangement, in camelot!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-16
Updated: 2020-10-07
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:08:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 31,947
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24221839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturneequuis/pseuds/nocturneequuis
Summary: Aziraphale has no...has little interest in working with a demon. he does his duty and serves the Almighty no matter how much it pains him. It will all be for the better, surely. Crowley needs to work withsomeoneto keep himself from being flattened by Heaven or Hell or both.But here in fair Camelot, a storm is brewing and an angel and a demon may have to dosomethingbefore the storm breaks over their head.Perhaps they can come to some kind of Arrangement?In these pages, an Arthurian Romance is born...
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Manna from Heaven, Whiskey from Hell [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1692535
Kudos: 6





	1. A Tale of Two Knights

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Aziraphale is certainly not having anything to do with a demon who proposed an outlandish scheme that he wants no part in.   
> Meanwhile, Crowley needs to turn the tide since things might be a bit more on the precipice than he let on.

The rain which had been threatening all day had arrived in a miserable downpour. Aziraphale guided Genevieve down the trail which was now a veritable swamp, churning with mud. The rain drummed irritatingly on helm and shoulders, making a staccato rhythm. It dripped off his nose and seemed to work itself even under his chain mail hood. How fitting for Crawley— _Crowley_ , to pick such a miserable spot to — well— lurk. No, _foment_. Aziraphale refused to believe that it was an actual word— or at least not in the context the demon chose to use it.

Once again he felt the — the absolute outrage at the memory of the brief meeting simmering just under his breastbone. To say—to even _suggest_ that they skive off— that they _lie_ to their respective head offices! Even if, right at the very moment he had to admit he’d almost be willing to be tempted into perhaps considering lounging in his chambers, feet up in front of a roaring fire with a cup of mulled wine. No, even more than that, to be in his little flat in Constantinople, with its view of the glittering blue of the Sea of Marmara. With the bath houses and beautiful mosaics and honey cakes that sat delicately on the tongue! With the fine wines and warm air and the theater! Oh! It had positively _flourished_ under the reign of Theodora. Before Aziraphale had left, the Platae Street Players had been about to put on a showing of Helen, a rather racy one at that if he remembered, which of course he disapproved of. Rumor had it the acclaimed actress cheekily named Equanita would be reprising her star role and she was lovely as she danced and draped across the stage. He tried not to patronize her too much as she was a prostitute, but one could not be expected to have better choices if one did not have better circumstances, could one?

Still! He thought, setting his chin and pushing thoughts of the warm sunlit days out of his mind. He was an Angel of the Most High and certainly not here for Pleasure of Any Sort. _If_ he experienced Pleasure, it was merely a Side Effect and not his Set Purpose. He knew well why the Reason he was here. Well, sort of. Well, mostly. It was something both amorphous and Highly Specific at the same time and Aziraphale felt rather at odds with it. Honestly, he suspected he was the only one who _could_ do a thing like thing like this as even other Principalities tended to pop in only for a month or two at _most_ and were _quite_ unaware of how to blend in.

So he was Needed for this Sacred Duty. They Depended on him. He would not falter! Would promote Peace and Goodness and Light for all that he was worth and cast away temptations of any old devil! Aziraphale raised his head in pride, only to grimace as he caught a face full of the whiskery tips of a pine branch he hadn’t realized he was so close to.

“Bless it!” he muttered angrily to himself, swiping at his nose and yelping softly as he bashed himself with the unforgiving metal of the gauntlet. “Oh, _really!_ _”_

Armor was _too_ much! More protective perhaps! But hardly conducive to— to — well to do anything other than charge recklessly into battle!

He blew out a breath, spattering droplets of sneaky rainwater as he did so, and set his heart into steely resolve once more. At least they were close to the encampment now. He could just see the flicker of the torches through the trees. It was a splendid little campsite, very picturesque, even in the rain. The tents and pavilions which had been set up gleamed even among the pouring rain and a faint sense of cheer tingled on the edge of his senses. A smile stitched across his face before he could help it and he gladly dismounted at the base of the camp, nodding to the guards and letting Reginald take his horse.

Then he made his, slightly bowlegged, way to his tent set almost on the outskirts of the campsite. It was political he knew. His modest gold and white striped tent had been assigned a spot as far from the King’s as could be without giving intentional insult. He had gained some favor, it said, but they still did not trust him. It was fair, he supposed. He had only been at court for half a year and still hadn’t quite proved himself a Knight, at least not to them. He wondered if that would have to be rectified. On the other hand, he wasn’t here to make a splash, just to support from underneath.

Not that they needed his help, it seemed.

With a sigh, he entered his tent, startling his Page, Daffyd, out of the chair where he’d been dozing. The boy, all gangles and bowl cut, looked at him guilty over his large nose.

“Hallo, dear boy,” Aziraphale said as kindly as he might. He honestly didn’t mind the child taking a kip on his chair so long as he himself didn’t wish to sit on it. “Would you mind giving me a hand?”

“Yes, Sir, thank you, Sir,” said the boy. Aziraphale remained as still as he could and allowed the boy to unbuckle, untie, and generally unarmor him, sighing with relief as the heavy mail was taken away piece by piece. He had been a bit reluctant at first to take on a Page, not to mention a groom, a cook, a couple of maids, and an old hound boy that he had been asked to take on. Heaven would frown Mightily on servants, he knew, and he’d never needed them before— But being a Knight of a Certain Standing required Things and Things required People to Do Them, at least if he wanted to blend in which Heaven had seemed much Keen on. He’d explained as much to Gabriel a rather exhausting missive, not wanting any misunderstanding. The Arch Angel had sent back a terse: ‘Very Well’, which spoke to him that Gabriel was irritated with him, only reluctantly approving and implying somehow that this was Aziraphale’s fault.

“Thank You, Daffyd,” said Aziraphale when the last of the armor was removed.

“I’ll have the foot bath ready if you like, Sir. And supper if you want it, Sir.”

“Yes, thank you. I suspect it’s boar again.”

The boy grinned, revealing a charming snaggle tooth.

“I ‘spect it is, Sir.”

“Well, better that than a stick in the eye.” He sank with a groan into the chair, allowing the Page to settle a cloak of fur around his shoulders, and warmed his hands by the crackling fire in the center of the room. He supposed it wasn’t so bad here, he thought as he glanced around the room. It was very cozy, cozier in the palace of course with its beautiful tapestries and rolling views— but here, well, everything was right at hand. He stared at his banner which he had spent a good month on designing before spending a few more months waiting for it to be woven. He could have _miracled_ it, of course, but well if Heaven wanted him to blend in properly, things needed to be done properly. And if that meant he must stay in Constantinople a little longer, well, that was the price one must pay.

It was a simple diamond, intersected with pale blue lines. At the top, a pale gold, almost cream, with an antique crown on it, representing his own status of a Principality, and of course the Almighty whom he served. In the middle, two pristinely white doves sat on a pale gray background greeted each other bearing a twining bit of olive branch. On the bottom, also in pale gold, an escrol, a white feather crossed over a bit of parchment—indicative of… well, he wasn’t sure. The egregious missives he’d written to Gabriel, perhaps? Either way he liked it, though was a bit dubious about using it long term. He wasn’t entirely comfortable being so presented out in the open as a Definite Figure in Such a Place. It certainly would look silly back in Constantinople.

Ah~ Perhaps when he returned the Hagia Sophia, which had been overseeing the completion of as his last mission, or perhaps a _missio interruptus,_ would be complete. Oh, that was the stuff dreams were made of! The beautiful dome! The gorgeous mosaic of patterns on the curved walls, like the inside of a bowl, the delicate stained-glass windows— What a _place_ that would be. He was sure there would be many celebrations to mark its completion. Celebrations full of delectable food. He sighed and allowed himself to slip into the daydream of it, a pass time made easier as Daffyd returned. Aziraphale soon found himself with a pleasant foot bath with pleasantly steaming water, a goblet of warm mulled wine and a bread bowl of boar’s head soup, with fresh carrots and squash and peppered to taste.

He smiled indulgently as Daffyd curled up on a pile of furs and continued pretending to learn his letters whilst daydreaming of shining armor and fair maidens. Yes, well, he supposed Britain had _some_ charm despite it all. A very little, but it was there. It was more of a cozy country ambiance rather than the elite metropolitan of Constantinople where culture flowed through from all corners of the empire. The heart of the world, he thought. And he was stuck in the gizzard. But it was not a terrible gizzard.

So Crowley, with all his wiles, could stuff it.

He sipped the wine and settled back, feeling quite smugly content.

Or he _was_ content until Sir Gawain came in, thrusting the tent flap imperiously out of his way, with Sir Tristan close behind. Aziraphale arranged his face into something of a smile.

“Why, hello, good sirs,” he managed, feeling self-conscious in his foot bath, but likewise self-conscious to pull his feet from it as if he cared what they thought. “What brings you to my tent on this dreary day?”

“A story.” Gawain said, pulling up a chair and sitting it side straddle and backwards, full of daring and vigor. The boar’s tooth necklace that he had won for getting the killing strike rattled around his neck. It had been hideously barbarous that hunt, and so had many of the hunts that had dragged the whole court out here for some ‘fun’. He’d been relieved to hear the tale of a horrible Black Knight in the area for him to distract himself with and volunteer to vanquish. Hunting was a sport fit for humans and he couldn’t even fish without feeling a bit squeamish.

That aside, he was suspicious about the shrewd bold look that Gawain was giving him and clutched the goblet of wine in a fit of nerves that he tried to hide.

“And what story is that?” Aziraphale said, managing to keep his voice steady. He raised his eyebrows in what he hoped was a mildly interrogative manner.

“What about the man and the moon maiden?” said Tristan, pulling up his own chair beside Gawain’s and sitting likewise. The boy was a hair younger than his fellow and had a ready easy smile and a ready easy face, open and honest, delighting to laugh. He was called one of the sparkling jewels of court. There were young ladies a plenty who swooned in his path or left him with scented handkerchiefs.

“I want a more interesting story than that, my friend,” said Gawain, his grin wide though put Aziraphale in mind of a dog showing its teeth. “I wish to hear the story of Sir Aziraphale and the Black Knight.”

“Ah…” Yes, he’d been afraid it was something like that. He fidgeted the goblet around in his hands, then realized he was doing so and stopped. “I’m afraid there’s not much to tell really.”

“Don’t be so modest, Sir Aziraphale,” said Gawain. “I’m sure you gave him quite a thrashing. Don’t you remember him promising that Tristan?”

“Godsblood I do!” Tristan’s grin took on the same mischievous quality. “And I admit I was worried, a knight of your…er…experience going out to face such a battle alone.”

By experience he meant age, Aziraphale suspected. And, well, he _certainly_ didn’t _look_ so old!

“And yet here we find the bold Sir Aziraphale unscathed and unbled. So tell us, Sir.” Gawain practically leered. “How did that come about?”

“Oh…well…er…” He wiggled his toes absently in the foot bath, seeing the raised eyebrows of the other two and feeling absurd. A flush stole across his face. “It…It wasn’t quite as er…showy as I thought it…er …might be.” Honestly he shouldn’t have made such a grand announcement! At the time he had felt it necessary to peel away from the main group who wanted nothing more than to continue the hunt with frothing horses and baying hounds. He had also felt, well, it shouldn’t be terribly difficult to vanquish a black knight. Either the knight was human and so could easily be frightened into good, or demon and could be smoted. And he would have smote mightily!

Were it not _that_ one…

“Squire Reginald said you did nothing but speak to him,” said Gawain. “What might you have said to him?”

“S-said?” Aziraphale said, wishing foul things on the stutter.

“Don’t be so suspicious, Gawain,” said Tristan. “Sir Aziraphale has been our trusted fellow knight ere this past six month. I’m sure whatever was said was to the benefit of all.”

Oh dear. His throat went dry and he drunk more wine, not knowing what else to do. He scrambled for lies and half truths and complete fabrications of reality. Finding nothing he instead hoped fervently that something would come and interrupt this so he at least could get some breathing room. His prayer, such as it was, was answered a moment later as the tent flap once again burst aside. This time it was the tall, broad shouldered Lancelot with curling blond hair to his shoulders and a tunic of sky blue that brought out his fair eyes.

“ _Zut alors_ ,” he said, a laugh dancing in his voice. “What is this? A merry gathering? And I not invited?” If Tristan was a sparkling jewel of the court, Lancelot was the centerpiece that was affixed to the front of a crown. Everyone in court would swoon at his feet if they did not respect his valor and, more importantly, chastity so much. He seemed the epitome of manly virtue without the problems of manly vices and Aziraphale could not help but like him.

“He was telling us the story of the Black Knight and how he defeated him,” said Gawain, a look of triumph in his face. Glittering jewel that boy was not, more like light glinting off a sword or head of spear.

Lancelot gave a theatric gasp.

“Well that is not a story to be told to so private an audience!” He clapped a broad aquiline fingered hand on Tristan’s shoulder. “And certainly not before the King hears of it,” he added to Gawain’s open mouthed intercession. The younger knight closed his mouth with a snap and his face reddened.

“Come come,” Lancelot said. “Be not wrothful! It is a good story and I am confident Sir Aziraphale will regale us with the telling of it!”

Oh, if only he could.

“His Majesty invites you to his tent, Sir Aziraphale, which is why I came to see you.” Lancelot turned those blue eyes on him and gave a flourishing bow that almost deserved an applause. “But I am sure he wouldn’t mind others in the audience were they to keep their heads clear and tongues civil.”

“My tongue was not uncivil!” Gawain said, bursting to his feet. The humor in Lancelot’s eye did not dim, but his voice became warm.

“Which is why,” he said. “You should be invited. Now, come, Sirs! Let us go beg audience of the King to hear this fantastic tale!”

In a twinkling of an eye, Lancelot had spirited both young men out of the tent, leaving Aziraphale to his now cool foot bath and quite empty goblet. Lancelot had saved him and well he knew it. He would have to thank the man somehow though he didn’t know how he might yet. Well, one of the ways he might was to tell a tale that would please the king. Only what tale he could tell was beyond him!

He sighed and dried off his feet with a linen before putting on his satin slippers— Then remembered the condition outside and went to shove his feet in his still damp boots. Daffyd stirred from where he lay on the furs.

“Sir Aziraphale?” he murmured.

“I am going to see the King,” Aziraphale said. “And it might be a while, so feel free to finish the stew if you would like. I’m certain to be fed there.” And at a King’s table, no less! On a hunting trip as may be.

He slung a pale white cloak about his shoulders and pulled off the hood. A minor miracle had made it rain repellent some time ago, though it didn’t fit well over armor and ruined the silhouette of it besides. Still when it came to getting from tent to tent, it was useful. As he squelched closer, he wondered what he might say, how he might excuse this complete lack of smiting. After all he could hardly say the demon was a friend, could he? Because he most certainly was not! It was— well— it was quite difficult to— to even think about doing violence to his person.

Aziraphale forced himself to imagine it. Of doing what he ought to have done and run the sword through him, to smite him with iron and flame unto discorporation. He really _should_. After all that was what he was _here_ for and it would certainly prevent the further fomenting of evil in Arthur’s kingdom. Perhaps he should tell them that! Yes, he should! Should tell them that— he let the Black Knight off with a warning and any _further_ fomenting would lead to divine punishment. No. Human punishment. No, punishment, just plain and simple.

And…and he would! Should Crawley— _Crowley_ foment again. Goodness, why was an o so different? It was simply impossible to remember.

He stopped before the King’s tent and took a moment to compose himself. It was by far the biggest and grandest. Made comfortable by wealth and druidic magic and Arthur’s own charisma woven into the very fabric it seemed. That very charisma that made all heads at the table round equal, though Arthur’s more equal than most. Aziraphale took a breath, let it out, prepared the words carefully in his head, then pushed in regally as he might.

Several heads looked up as he entered. Arthur, fair-haired, gray eyed and grave, Lancelot, fair-haired, blue eyed and gay, the jewel bright Tristan and the unsheathed sword of Gawain. There was fire-tongued Kay, noble-browed Sir Lionel whose lands they were currently sitting on, Bedivere the stalwart and a knight that Aziraphale couldn’t yet remember though his name started with a P he was sure. There was also Myrddin that most called Merlin because Welsh didn’t so much trip across the tongue as fall down a flight of stairs. He was a druid of exceedingly high caliber and as such, mistrustful of Aziraphale the very moment he stepped across Camelot’s threshold. He watched the proceedings with silver-gray eyes narrowed and the talking owl on his shoulder shifting uncertainly.

In short it was most of the great and good at Camelot and all of the great and good who were currently on this hunting jaunt. Aziraphale’s throat went dry. He suddenly felt as if he was standing before an inquisition in Heaven, Gabriel’s eyes boring into him and that tight smile cutting wire thin across his face. Perhaps even Uriel with him. And naturally the Angel of the Moment who had proved much better at their job than Aziraphale was currently Failing to Do. He folded his hands in front of him, cleared his throat, cleared it again and managed a:

“He-hello. I’ve come to tell you about the Black Knight and my er… er….encounter with him.”

Gawain grunted but said no more as Lancelot laid a hand on his arm.

Aziraphale swallowed and tried desperately not to look suspicious.

“You are not in front of a lion’s den,” said Arthur with a faint smile. “Sir Aziraphale, please, sit. Share our wine and have a slice of the berry tart. You are among friends.”

It was the mark of a good king, Aziraphale thought, to say such a thing and almost sound like he meant it. He sat himself at the table and poured himself another cup of wine from the pitcher in the center. The berry tart he would save as a reward for having achieved his ends. Aziraphale took a draught of wine to steel himself and hoped it would loosen his tongue to speak with easy confidence.

“Well I er— bravely met the Black Knight who— well to be honest, wasn’t quite sure he would be all that great and terrible. Rumor does spread awfully you know and so far the only razed village I’d come across was because someone had accidentally set fire to the thatch whilst playing a nighttime game of slap and tickle. Of course I hardly told the others that but it was quite amusing. Oh! There was also the incident of the missing chickens which I also investigated quite thoroughly, I assure you, but according to er, Mistress Honeyweather, they’d merely been dropped off about a mile or so outside of the village, all accounted for of course. Her biggest problem was trying to trudge a mile and back to get breakfast going, but between you and me I’ve gone further for a souffle.” A small mortifying giggle slipped out.

Arthur’s smile stiffened slightly, and his gray water eyes began to beg for mercy from the Heavens.

In that stillness, Lancelot guffawed.

“You spin a good tale! Worthy of a jester!”

“Yes, thank you,” Aziraphale tittered, trying not to think too much of how ‘jester’ was very close to ‘fool’.

“But tell us the meat, my friend,” said Lancelot. “Tell us what you said and did to the Black Knight.”

Myrddin’s grip tightened on his staff, Kay and Bedivere leaned forward while Lionel leaned back, face paling. The faint smile was back on Tristan’s face and Gawain’s eyes were glittering agate stones. The knight with a “P” had fallen asleep and Aziraphale was quite glad of it. Now here came the crux. The part of the story which Aziraphale would have to make look good while not stepping outside the bounds of truth.

“I er… well! I told him off very sternly!” And that was true! He had told him off very sternly. “And if he does any fomenting again, I shall be certain to take care of it.” Which hadn’t technically said, but he hadn’t claimed he’d said either.

“What’s fomenting?” Tristan asked.

“Kind of porridge,” said Kay.

Which was exactly what Aziraphale had thought. He’d _known_ he wasn’t alone in that assumption!

Arthur’s smile went tighter, and the knights not involved in contemplating fomentation or otherwise asleep, cast shifting looks at one another. Merddyin made a dismissive wave of a hand, nearly upsetting the owl who hooted dolefully: “Peter.”

There was no one named Peter that Aziraphale knew, but he dared not ask the mystery of the owl for fear he’d find out.

“Very— noble of you, Sir Aziraphale,” said Arthur.

“It is indeed, my Lord!” replied Lancelot gaily. So gaily in fact that even Arthur’s smile dropped a notch and he cast a look of raised eyebrows at his favored knight. “Well! A man must make love on the battlefield as easily as he makes war!”

“I certainly did none of that!” Aziraphale said. “We had quite the disagreement, let me tell you!”

“A stay of peace then,” said Lancelot.

“So we’re to let him continue to savage our kingdom?” said Gawain.

“Hard to call chicken moving savage,” said Kay. “Even if he’d nicked an egg it’d be more like erm—”

“Naughty,” Aziraphale supplied.

“Yeah, that.”

Though being helpful, Aziraphale shortly realized, was to his own detriment as he carefully had to file the words ‘naughty’ and ‘Craw— Crowley’ into two separate parts of his brain.

“I have heard black rumors,” said Gawain. “Rumors too dark and evil to be made up by the simple folk. There is something nefarious at work behind the scenes even if we don’t see it.”

“That is why we should have a tourney,” said Lancelot.

“A tourney?” Arthur’s eyebrows rose higher.

“A _tourney_?” Gawain repeated in annoyed confusion.

“A tourney! Wahey!” Kay slammed the table with a fist and Lionel said:

“Oh I do so love a good tourney, rather!”

“As do I,” said Tristan while Bedivere nodded in agreement while ‘P’ knight let out a little snore.

Arthur held up a hand so all quieted.

“I don’t follow your logic, my brother,” he said to Lancelot. The Frenchman’s eyes sparkled.

“Think of it, _mon ami_. If the Black Knight is a threat enough to challenge us but razing villages and so on, then he is brave enough to come fight at the tourney! We will show him our force of strength and beat him soundly! Or perhaps he will be so cowed by our abilities and turn tail into the hills. Perhaps he may even decide to leave the cloak of evil behind and join us! Besides how better to show the Kingdom how safe they are by vanquishing someone in front of their eyes!”

“You do make a wise point,” Arthur said, stroking his beard. Then turned to the druid always by his shoulder.

“What do you think, Myrddin?”

The old druid was also stroking his beard and there was a silver sound of dangling bells, though they were hidden by the fall of white. Aziraphale met those silvery-gray eyes with a face of utmost innocence. After all, he was _hardly_ the one that suggested a tourney— Even if he had to admit he was looking forward to it a little.

“Tom,” hooted the owl. “Wiiilliam.”

“I think we should see what comes of it. Though do not expect Good.”

“We will not expect it even if we shall welcome it!” cried Lancelot. “What say you, Arthur?”

“Tourney it is!” Arthur replied with a brilliant smile.

“This calls for a celebration!” Bedivere said, bass voice seeming to rumble right through the table. “More wine! More fruit! There’s to be a tourney!”

Gawain continued to glower at Aziraphale over the celebration of his fellow knights, but this time Aziraphale ignored him as he helped himself to a tart or two. He was in the clear. After all, while he wouldn’t say he knew … _Crowley_ well, he at least knew the demon wasn’t a fighter and was far too clever to go near a tourney where he would be smeared like paste into the ground by even the weakest of knights. The arrow had been dodged quite effectively and he couldn’t help but be proud of himself. Smiling, he bit into a berry tart. It was no marzipan cake gently roasted in almonds and spread with honey, but victory made it taste all the sweeter.

/////\\\\\\\\\

The bull was huge, its large white horns shone proudly in the moonlight. Crowley squinted at it through the slit in the visor, going over the plan once more in his head. It was a simple one, simple but effective. This big brown bugger of a bull was the prize of Ten Fields and all of the other little fiefs scattered across this rolling countryside knew it and were envious. All he had to do was move said bull from Ten Fields about eight furlong’s East to the village of Grover-on-the-Stream. More importantly this would move the bull from the auspices of Sir Hargreave to the auspices of Sir Bladd, friendly enough neighbors with only a slight rivalry as they jostled in a sporting way for a seat at the Round Table. Upon transplanting said bull, all he’d have to do was spread the rumor that the Black Knight had done this as a part of Dark Justice and let the people fill in the blanks why.

‘Oh!’ They would say. ‘He must be showing favor to Sir Bladd’

Or

‘Oh! Sir Hargreave must have disappointed his Black Knight friend something awful.’

And then while both knights struggled to clear their names and figure out what was going on, the rivalry would turn a little more heated and set the two fiefs against one another.

Of course then, he thought sourly, sometime after the bloody brawl and before the _real_ civil unrest hit the windmill, in would come ‘Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round’- he mocked the angel silently— and set it all to rights again. Thus negating Crowley standing out in this ruddy field at all. He almost wanted to pack it in and call it a night. Hell, he was more than half tempted to try and skive off completely and hop back up to Scandinavia. Those humans _really_ knew how to party and he’d spent a good chunk of the first half of the century getting absolutely blotto with them.

Hell would have a thing to say about _that_ , he knew. Or, more likely, a thing to _do_. _Probably_ involving red hot pokers in unfortunate places and that was if they were feeling _magnanimous_. Oh yeah he _could_ try _hop_ up anyway, sending them Accounts of Deeds and hope they didn’t check up. Only first he’d have to find a way to ditch the black armor that Hell had given him to keep tabs on him. And even if he managed that, he would be in _entirely too much_ damn trouble if Aziraphale managed to foment more peace than he discord and the Lower Downs caught wind of it. If he could get Aziraphale to _stop_ that would be one thing, but as an angel was practically untemptable.

Hence him standing out on a pasture in the middle of a night trying to shift a great sodding bull.

“Is everything alright, Master?” said Two Drink Tom who stood just down a bit and to his left. “Not getting the collywobbles are you?”

“’Course ‘e isn’t!” hissed Slow Richard. “’E’s the Black Knight! ‘E’s just subduin’ the beast with his demonic aura.”

Actually, he hadn’t thought of that and wasn’t sure his demonic aura was strong enough to get the bull to do anything but laugh at him. Still, it didn’t hurt to further that supposition and let a little showy manifestation of black smoke appear around him — to the appreciative oooos of the others.

“Look, are we goin’ or ent we?” bellowed Harriet from the other end of the pasture where she was mann— womanning the gate. “Only this bull pattiepie I’m standiin’ by is startin’ to go off a bit.”

Right. Enough faffing about. Crowley pursed his lips, glad for the relative safety of the visor that let the others imagine any kind of expression on his face. He peered at the iron ring in his hand that they had lifted from a blacksmith just two days ago.

“Are you sure this will work?” he said to Slow Richard.

“’Course it will. Saw it when I was a lad in Lincolnshire didn’t I? Just pop that ring through ‘is snout and ‘e’ll follow gentle as a lamb.”

“And—?” Crowley asked into the ensuing silence.

“And nothin’. S’all you gotta do,” said Slow Richard. Still, Crowley hesitated a few moments longer. There was a very distinctive ‘harumph’ from pasture gate and Crowley nodded to himself, satisfied that enough time had passed. He reached out, pulling the ring open a bit, then, not knowing quite else how to proceed—shoved it in the bull’s nose. The creature startled, dancing back a pace, then gave Crowley a look of pure malevolence that was enough to make his skin crawl.

“’Course it hurts like blazes so they do tend to get a bit tetchy at first,” said Slow Richard. “Good to give ‘em a good bit of distance afterward.”

The bull bellowed loud enough to buzz the confines of his helm and Crowley had the keen thought that a good bit of distance sounded like a bloody good idea. He turned and grit his teeth as a horn buzzed the back of his armor, the shrieking vibration of it working through the kinks of his spine. Then he was running. They all were, he was sure, but all he could hear was the hideous _clank clank clank_ of each movement. He kept his eyes on the pasture fence he could only just make out.

Then his feet shot out from under him and he plowed face first into the soft earth.

“Watch out for that pattypie!” said Slow Richard. Crowley didn’t have time to be irritated. He got to his feet with the helping brawny hands of Two Drink Tom and together they charged the gate. Harriet slammed the gate open and the bull slammed through not a moment after, sending poles and wood splinters flying. Crowley at least had the comfort of knowing his own shriek was drowned out by the cries of the others and dove for the forest —

—only to stop as Nyxx the Stallion, also known as the Terror of the Legion of the Bloodless or the Undying Scream, loomed out of the shadows and looked at them from down its long equine nose, its eyes like smoldering coals.

Crowley nodded to it, feeling cold sweat go down his neck.

“Evenin’,” said Two Bit Tom.

“Your Lordship,” said Harriet with an awkward curtsy. Slow Richard managed a hasty bow and even the bull stopped to pay obeisance to it as they walked in a slow respectful line past the creature and into the tree line.

Crowley knew they were far enough away when the bull bellowed again and he picked up his speed, hearing the clangs and bumps of branches as they whisked over his face and nearly being mainlined once or twice by a low lying branch or curling root. The bull continued its hideous charge despite it all and Crowley knew of only one thing to do.

“Back to camp!” he called.

Harriet gasped behind him.

“Bit cruel, isn’t it?” said Two Drink Tom.

“I know! We could set _himself_ after the beastie!”

Crowley shuddered. It was a bit extreme, but no better ideas came to him so he veered back toward camp hearing the _clank clank clank_ all the way. Their camp consisted of a small black tent in a fern filled clearing. A lean to constructed of very dead pine boughs had been lashed against a tree whose trunk had turned white. The lean-to was empty, but with any luck, the camp wasn’t quite deserted.

He had a heartbeat of warning, a prickle of darkness under his skin, to call out:

“Noses in, lads!” and stopped breathing altogether as the stench hit. The humans gagged behind him and the bull gave a confused and then disgusted bellow. One by one they dove into the relative safety of the small tent, leaving the foul odor behind into the slightly disturbing but much more palatable in comparison scent of lavender and cow shit.

“Good ol’ Foul Young Jon,” said Harriet. “Where d’you s’ppose he’s off to? Can’t be far off if his smell is still bangin’ about.

“No idea,” said Crowley, taking off his helmet and sucking in a breath of free air just for the relief of it. Foul Young Jon was the fourth sort of member of their little quintet. Crowley wasn’t entirely convinced he wasn’t a demon. The man was a beggar and clearly out of his gourd, if he ever had one to begin with, but more importantly carried with him a stench so foul it seemed to have developed its own personality and oft times seemed to stay back and take a kip even after Foul Young Jon had left the area. The funny thing was that it wasn’t a malevolent force of nature, and he highly doubted it was a benevolent one, it was just what it was— A force of nature— Like a strong wind or a raging flood that was, usually, just the world being itself.

He wondered if he could find a way to give it a biscuit or something.

“Well done, lads,” he said and at a harrumph added: “And lady.” He set his helmet on the armor stand and proceeded to strip the rest of his armor as Two Drink Tom lit the oil lamps and braziers. The room opened up in a glow of warm light, revealing the small elegant trestle table and bench, ready to be sat and caroused at at the end of a long hard day fomenting. Only Crowley wasn’t much in a carousing mood at the moment.

“What are we going to tell the locals then?” said Harriet, hand on her hip. “We didn’t ‘zactly shift the bull to anywhere but the forest did we?”

“Good point.” Crowley thought a moment as he pulled off his gauntlets, setting them aside. “We’ll just tell them the Black Knight set the bull loose at behest of a friend.” Because that could mean any friend. That could mean fellow knight or fellow peasant or even the Dark Lord Satan himself. The distrust and rumor would brew and broil and all he had to do was nearly get his face trampled in.

“Right,” said Slow Richard. “I’m goin’ to make us some sup. You still usin’ those chicken gizzards, Harry?”

“ _Harriet_ ,” Harriet growled. Satan, Crowley knew _that_ feeling.

“Harriet,” said Slow Richard obediently.

“No, I’m done with ‘em, love.”

“Right-o. Am I makin’ for you and all, Sir Crowley?”

“Just some wine, thanks. One of the dusty bottles.” He could use a good dusty wine. Slow Richard drifted off kitchenward to take care of it. Harriet remained standing nearby, giving him a thoughtful look.

“Hey, come help a lad with this brazier, would you?” said Two Drink Tom. “It’s giving us trouble again.”

Harriet gave Crowley a look and he nodded saying it was fine to come talk to him later about whatever was on her mind. He owed her that much at least. He watched her go off to help, then stripped off the rest of his armor, setting it respectfully on the armor stand. The smell of manure was slowly fading and disappearing from the black-as-pitiless-night greaves. The armor had some pride after all. The chainmail, on the other hand, was completely mundane, and easier to shuck off and pile into a cedar trunk before he went to his own small chamber. The chamber was small and close with a sloping roof that spoke of the slant of tent roof. There were furs piled up in one corner under a gold capped drinking horn that Bjorn Bjornsson had given to him at seventh attempt to pay his bride price. Crowley hadn’t been interested and hadn’t even been aware there was interest and Bjorn Bjornsson razed five villages to the ground, so put out was he.

A bad job well done, he supposed, but he couldn’t help but be annoyed at the human tendency to visit their own misery on everyone else.

The other things in the room included a small table for drinking at, a chest or two, and most importantly a wooden tub that filled with steaming hot soapy water at a click of the fingers.

Crowley wriggled out of the rest of his clothes and let his hair down with a sigh. It uncoiled down his back, coming out of its braid and spreading tickling tendrils at the backs of his thighs. He pushed the heavy curtain of it out of the way as he slipped into the hot water. He tried to relax, but his mind kept coming back to the fact that no matter what evil bubbled up after tonight’s pain in the arse caper, it would easily be quashed by that damn angel. Not only that, he couldn’t see how it would end. Camelot wasn’t going anywhere in a hurry and the more peace it spread, the harder Crowley would have to work and the harder Aziraphale would work for this glorious sodding stalemate.

“Bugger this for a lark,” he muttered, laying his head back on the goose down stuffed bolster at the back of the tub. There had to be _something_ he could use to convince Aziraphale. Could he produce so much evil it would overwhelm the angel? Nah, too much work, and besides there was such a thing about being _too_ good at your job. He didn’t want to call the attention of Aziraphale’s superiors who would be far more eager to smite him. If he could just get away from the cursed armor it wouldn’t matter. But no, he was stuck, for decades maybe. A century or two if he was _really_ unlucky.

Probably would be.

A knock on the door interrupted his pity party- it probably meant wine and nothing was better for a party than good Sumerian wine that was older than God. Or at least the Son of God. Not that he’d lasted bloody long but the less thought about that the better.

“Yeah,” he said.

The door opened admitting Harriet who had changed to a woolen shift and red skirt. She swished over to him, even practicing that hip thing he’d taught her. She was still a little awkward but showed promise.

“I brought your wine, Master. And my own if you don’t mind me sharin’ a bit of time.”

“Nah, pull up a stool.”

She did and they drank for a moment in companionable silence. At least this part wasn’t so bad. If he had to be here at all, it was nice to have company for a couple years anyway. After that humans got too familiar or too clingy or had questions they really didn’t want to know the answers to. So far it had only been a handful of months so the romance of it all was still in the air. It wasn’t a bad lot he’d collected either. Or rather it was a middling lot with a great potential down the line.

Two Drink Tom, for instance, was an alright sort until he had two drinks. Then he became a master thief, nicking everything that wasn’t nailed down and later coming back for the nails. Crowley was considering setting him on a career of outlawry. Outsourcing as it were. Slow Richard enjoyed spreading lies and gossip and slander. Or he had the ambition to spread it. At the moment he was too honest and too behind everyone else to get a good lie out. A work in progress, Crowley thought. Wasn’t a bad thing. Harriet was the most ambitious of the group. She wanted to learn Dark Magic and become a Wicked Sorceress that sent Men Crashing to Their Knees in Supplication. The men part was new. It used to be the world, but he was proud of her for narrowing her focus to something easily attainable in a human lifetime. If she managed to live beyond that, then they could work on broadening her horizons.

And then there was Foul Young Jon who — well— Crowley had no bloody idea what was going on with him really. He hung about, afraid of coming into any enclosed space it seemed and also anything resembling water. Anyway, he added a certain miasma to proceedings so wasn’t a bad one to have around so long as you stood upwind.

“May I ask you something, Master Crowley,” said Harriet. She sounded more serious than usual.

“Sure.”

“It’s about that gentleman you spoke to a fortnight ago. That shining knight.”

Oh, was it to be this conversation? Was she going to be wondering why he didn’t strike him down where he stood? Because he wasn’t completely mad was the reason. You didn’t poke at an angel unless you expected a poke back and Aziraphale had a much harder finger.

“What about him?” Crowley said, taking a draught of the wine which ran smooth as silk and potent as hell over his tongue and down his throat.

“I thought he was rather handsome, don’t you?”

Crowley had to lean over the edge of the tub as he proceeded to choke on that silk smooth wine. Of course he was handsome. He was a bloody _angel._ It came with the territory. What he didn’t know was why Harriet was bringing it up and what to say about it? Agree? Hell no. That could do bad things to a demon.

“Nhgk. I mean… he’s alright… Hadn’t noticed.”

“I thought he was quite fetching. Made me want to throw a scented handkerchief like the ladies of court do, but I doubt he’ll be keen on the scent of barley corn and stew.”

“Probably not,” Crowley managed. “Can’t really see him as a handkerchief sort of person.”

On the other hand, could it work? Could they buff Harriet up and see if they could—? _Could_ he be tempted by that sort of thing? Crowley tried to imagine it. A handkerchief fluttering to the ground, or perhaps some green lawn in a tended grove. Aziraphale strolling along in the dappled shade, sun glinting off his brilliant mail. He would spot that pale handkerchief lying on the emerald grass and he would stoop to pick it up, his fur cloak settling about him as he took the handkerchief between his fingers. Then he would offer it up, the scrap of linen— no, silk, falling over the backs of those fingers, his face tilted upward open and full of holy light while his eyes shone blue as forever.

“You close to him?” said Harriet.

“Nah,” Crowley managed. He tilted his head back and drank the whole bottle, trying to drown the mental image. It was just an imagining. Aziraphale was nothing like that. He flushed. He babbled. He got so endearingly hammered after eating oysters that Crowley had to help him home as they’d weaved and banged into about every wall on the way.

“Can I send him to his knees before me?” said Harriet.

“Wot?”

“Unless you want to do it first.”

“Nah— nah.” He finished the bottle and licked his lips. “Sure, why not.” It would be good for her anyway, to know that there were some forces even she couldn’t meddle with and to learn to pick her battles and accept defeat. And maybe Crowley could use it to his advantage. Say ‘I sent this human here, this wayward lamb, for you to counsel into Goodness.’ And then…what?

It seemed like a dead end after that, but there was something there. Some idea tickling at the back of his mind that would be brilliant if he could only tease to the surface. He brought someone to Aziraphale so…Aziraphale could do… good… and then…? And then…it showed…obliquely anyway… Crowley could do… good? Where would that get him other than an eternity’s worth of extremely painful rehabilitation? He should just let it go—

He almost let everything go and discorporated on the spot as _himself_ wafted through the door, curling every hair on his head, only pure fear of what Crowley would do to it keeping the water from turning black but even it shivered a dubious gray. Harriet made an uncomfortable horking noise and fell off her stool.

The next moment the door slapped open, admitting Foul Young Jon who had in his rangy fist, the hood and person of a wilted radish of a man dressed in green who was also turning green by the second.

“Foul Ol’ Jon’s just bust in!” cried Slow Richard.

“Buggerit,” explained Foul Young Jon. “Centennial Hand and Prawn I tol’ ‘em.”

“Please, sir,” cried the radish man, tears streaming down his face as he held a desperate hand over his nose. “I didn’t mean to trespass exactly. Please send him away.”

“Right. Fine. I’ll interrogate him mightily,” Crowley promised as the soap began to curdle. “Appreciate it, Jon.”

“I tol’ him, I tol’ him,” muttered Foul Old Jon, seemingly appeased. He dropped the radish man on the floor and wandered out, _himself_ following so malodorously that even the tent wrinkled in disgust. The radish man collapsed to his knees in gratitude and also trauma probably. Crowley took the opportunity to slip from the bath and wrap a red silk under-robe about his person, and stood with the tub between them, folding his arms.

“Well?” he said when the radish man had recovered somewhat.

“Are you the Black Knight?” the radish man said. “You must be for having such a hideous creature as a guard.”

“Yup. That’s me. What do you want… Foolish Mortal.” Alright so he wasn’t on his ‘A’ game, but admittedly it was hard to play any game at all with the memory of that stench still lingering. The Radish Man straightened. —No Radish Knight, Crowley corrected, seeing the sigil of said Radish stitched to his breast as he straightened his tunic.

“I come questing forth under the auspices of Sir Gawain and Sir Aziraphale of the Table Round.”

“Aziraphale?” Crowley echoed.

“Yes, my Lord,” said the Radish Knight. “To invite you to a tourney this first of May. There you will to battle for the Golden Arrow and the Associated Accolades.”

“Aziraphale invited me,” Crowley said to see if he had that right. The Radish Knight blinked.

“Yes, Lord, and Sir Gawain whom I serve.”

Why was Aziraphale inviting him? Seemed an odd thing for an angel to do. Was it a trap maybe? Did Aziraphale want to lure him out and smite him? He considered that for a second and tossed away the idea. Nah. If Aziraphale had been going to smite him like that, it would have been on the Garden Wall. Sword or not he had no doubt the angel could easily throw him over— and not, say, offer a fragrant wing to shelter under, and to watch water slide and shine along pristine white feathers.

But if not that, then what?

Unless he’d changed his mind about the skiving off thing?

Crowley’s heart lifted at the thought and excitement flared through him.

That had to be why. What other reason could it be? Aziraphale wanted him to come to talk about it. Of course Crowley couldn’t just show up. There had to be some show and pomp and suchlike. But really if they were going to come to some sort of agreement—! Only he had to be more cautious than that because he didn’t know for sure. Couldn’t hope too much with an angel who might even tell him to sod off. You never really knew for sure, did you.

“Right…” Crowley cleared his throat and tried again. “Right. Tell him that I shall attend this Tourney and crush him. Them. All of them. And they shall regret the day they invited me— and such like.”

“Right, sir. Will do, sir. Er…” The Radish Knight scratched the side of his nose. “My horse sort of rabbited whereupon I was captured. I don’t suppose you’ve one to lend me.”

“I have one,” said Crowley. Though ‘having’ was a debatable statement. “But you won’t like it.”

“Oh, any port in a storm, sir,” said the Radish Knight pluckily.

About half an hour later, Crowley wondered if the Radish Knight couldn’t outstrip a horse by the speed he was running from Nyxx. Could take him all the way back to Camelot.

Camelot…

Dangerous place for a demon to be, agreement or not. And, he reminded himself, Aziraphale wasn’t necessarily going to be on his side about this.

And yet…

“Are you sure a Tourney is wise, my lord,” said Two Drink Tom. “Could be a trap.”

“They’re too noble for that.”

It wasn’t wise, though and he knew it. He’d do better to avoid it.

“I wouldn’t be much of a Black Knight if I didn’t accept the challenge.”

Hard to spread fear and terror when people thought the noble knights could crush you.

Anyway— for good or ill, Aziraphale had invited him.

How could he really say no?


	2. In Camelot

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a battle brewing and it falls to Aziraphale to decide on whether it should go forward or not. All he needs are instructions from Heaven to proceed, but surely they will be on the side of peace.
> 
> Crowley isn't sure why Aziraphale invited him to the tourney, but all he knows is that he wants to avoid it now that he knows what it is. Still, before he leaves, might as well find out what it is the angel _really_ wants.

The Table Chamber was awash with warm western light that had to make its precarious way over the castle walls and through the great windows of the keep in the inner courtyard. Inside was a massive table, able to seat twenty-eight knights in a pinch, and painted with alternating stripes of white and red, leading to Aurthur’s sigil in the very center of it. Right now there were eighteen of them, not including Arthur himself. Myrddin sat at his left, an ever present— well— presence, alternately stroking his beard and stroking the feathered breast of his nervous owl.

Aziraphale tried not to make eye contact.

Instead he fixed his gaze respectfully over Bedivere’s left shoulder, close enough to appear to be listening to the Steward of the Granary, but not so close as to pin the man to the spot. The Steward was droning on and on, discussing some new sort of crop rotation that someone of somewhich had brought to his attention. Said someone of somewhich was standing at the door, flanked by guards, and rotating his hat round and round in his hand.

It was really all a formality, Aziraphale knew. This crop rotation system had already been approved by the steward and this show was merely to present the someone of somewhich the great honor of being in the room with King and Knights and to see his idea voted on. For Someone of Somewhich, this was a very momentous occasion so Aziraphale kept his face noble and his bearing regal even if a part of him felt like it was slowly dying of ennui, like a plant without the sweet kiss of rain.

Finally, the presentation came to an end and he straightened a little, pasting a beaming smile on his face as the voting began. The King began, lying his hand his hand flat on the table beside his bared sword.

“Aye,” he said in a warm, pleased voices.

The ‘ayes’ continued, all with similar voices, even from Sir Dinadan who had been so deep in his cups the other night his squire had to practically roll him to his room. Aziraphale followed the king’s lead, placing his hand next to his own glorified bread knife that counted for a sword and said:

“Aye.” With a touch of honey in his voice to add an almost holiness to the proceedings. It did make the humans glad to hear it. Most humans anyway. These knights had become accustomed to it, however. Only Lancelot’s eyes twinkled in his direction.

No matter.

The steward bowed, pleased and Someone of Somewhich’s face lit up, a flush coming to his already ruddy cheeks. Making their obeisances then, they left the Table Chamber.

_You see?_ Aziraphale told himself. _You are doing Good here_.

So he should sit noble and proud, eager to continue to contribute.

Only it would be easier to be eager if Bedivere, Knight of the Table at the moment, didn’t immediately start on another piece of business. Aziraphale tried not to slouch. Had a servant refill his goblet with sweet wine in order to aid this, and did his utmost to pay attention.

Even so his mind drifted back to other things.

To the streets of Constantinople, mostly, and Rome before her. The Golden Years of that great empire. Back when he was able to do the Almighty’s Great Work without being cooped up for hours on end in a room of stone and wood and failing evening light. A part of him wondered why he even _was_ here. What good he _could_ do that was beyond average human…fomenting, which was quickly counteracted by a certain demon.

_Ah, but that_ _’s what he’s hoping you’ll feel_ , Aziraphale told himself sternly. _The moment you let your guard down the Black Knight will run rampant._

Certainly, _Crow_ ley had never _seemed_ to be spreading much evil. He mostly just appeared and questioned the Almighty’s judgment and went on his merry wicked way. He had changed a bit in Rome, though Aziraphale had no idea what might have changed him. He’d certainly become more demonesque. Gone was that… that… well Aziraphale wouldn’t call it light exactly, and certainly not innocence, but the _je na sais quoi_ of someone who didn’t let even the most terrible things effect him over much.

In Rome, he had worn that bitterness on his skin and in his face and the set of his shoulders. Aziraphale hadn’t thought much of it at the time and had been, admittedly a touch too eager to see him. Well, it wasn’t _him_ per se, but the thought of introducing him to a delicacy. Why, introducing _anyone_ to oysters was a treat! He had just happened to _know_ him, that was all, there were certainly not _feelings_ involved.

Here Crowley had changed yet again, in a way Aziraphale couldn’t quite describe. There was something of an almost— _human_ quality about him. As if he’d gotten used to the world and existing in it and was becoming a part of it. How tremendous that he was so able to do that. Even though it had been centuries since the beginning of it all, Aziraphale still felt like an outsider.

“There is one final thing to discuss before I dismiss this audience,” said the King, the heaviness in his voice drawing Aziraphale from his thoughts. He blinked as the room came back to him. The sun had barely any light left for it and candles were being lit. Everyone looked weary about the eyes and tense about the shoulders— and it seemed as if every tired eye were turned on Aziraphale. He had a sinking feeling as to the nature of this discussion.

“The Hereweald question is once again brought to the Table,” the King said.

A sigh went up all round and Aziraphale felt his chest tighten. Oh, how he hated this question. It had stymied the table for two days now and every other time it had come up. Herewaeld was a Saxon Chief who had been picking at the borders of Arthur’s lands for a few months now, taking out strategic points, fraternizing with the enemies along the King’s borders. Many thought Herewaeld was gearing up for a more daring raid. The question was whether to beat him back with force now, or to hope that the oncoming summer would lure his attention back to his fishing grounds.

On one hand, there were many villages in the Chief’s path that hadn’t yet suffered from more than petty theft, but they might still should Herewaeld decide to step up his plans. On the other, many of those villages sat on what had once been Herewaeld’s ancestral lands that had been wrested from the hands of said ancestors many decades ago by Arthur’s father, Uther Pendragon. There was some debate over the authenticity of the treaty that had been forged then, and the transference of land was dubious at best.

Yet, what could be done? Those lands were settled now by people under Arthur’s protection and whether to nip Herewaeld’s advancement in the bud or nay had been a heated discussion for many a night. They had since voted twice now and twice it was an even split with an odd number of Knights and only one in the room to tie break.

“Do we fight,” Arthur said, placing his hand on the table in a loose fist. His gaze flicked around the room before settling Aziraphale with an almost weary expression. “Aye or nay.”

“We might never know,” muttered Gawain under his breath and this time no scolding looks were sent his way. Aziraphale kept his fingers clenched on his lap, hoping that the situation would resolve itself. One by one the knights of the table round either pressed their hands flat on the table or pressed closed fists against the white paneled wood. No side yielded to the other. No one changed their mind. And finally, once again, it was up to Aziraphale to decide.

Once again the eyes pierced him.

Tired, human eyes that wanted the decision to be made.

The knot in his chest tightened further.

Oh, if only Heaven had gotten back to him on what choice he ought to make! He had sent them several missives over the past few days and nothing. True, heaven operated on a different timetable, but matters on Earth required a slightly faster response than years at a time.

“I abstain,” he said. He had wanted to sound calm but his voice squeaked out anyway and he clenched his fingers under the table as the groans of the other knights rose around him. Gawain threw his hands in the air and even Lancelot sighed, giving Aziraphale a look of dry irritation.

“I- I mean I just think that it requires a little more _thought_ ,” Aziraphale said with a polite smile. “After all, war is not something one should rush into.”

“The only thing we shall rush into is our graves of old age,” muttered Gawain. Arthur held up a hand and his clear gray eyes rested on Aziraphale.

“I well understand your meaning, Sir Aziraphale,” he said. “Yet a decision must be made. We ask that you make it by next evening’s meeting.” It was not precisely a request and Aziraphale nodded.

“O-of course I shall do my best.” Though if Heaven hadn’t responded by then, he wasn’t sure _what_ he’d do.

“That is all we can ask,” said the King. A grave smile that no one believed came to his face. “Now let us rest, my brothers. We shall meet again thus before the tourney.”

With that, the knights rose. Chairs scraped away from the table as the great and good of Camelot stood, sheathed their swords, stretched their backs, and complained in a jovial companionable way to one another. Above noise, Aziraphale heard Gawain plainly say:

“Times like these I even miss Pellinore.”

It was a slight, Aziraphale knew. He had never met Pellinore, but they said the old knight was as daft as a daisy and often went into long, oft times incoherent, stories about this or that. He had gone missing some years ago, chasing after some Questing Beast and Aziraphale had more than once been tempted to quest off after him just so someone else could be the tie breaker.

But there was nothing he could do until he received orders. So he tried not to take the young man’s comments to heart. Instead he stood, and carefully sheathed his own sword and feeling the usual sting of guilt.

No sooner than he had taken a step forward from the table, he had to take half a step back as he found himself looking at Myrddin, with his silver-gray eyes, sharp as steel. There were a few juniper flowers braided into his long beard and Aziraphale knew from a small herbal that he found that they were meant to reveal truth.

Well, even if he told the silly little man the truth, he’d never believe it, would he? Aziraphale thought uncharitably.

“Er…hello,” he said, trying for pleasant as he folded his hands in front of him. “Can I help you?”

“I believe…” said Myrddin. “…That you purposefully hold us back. Though as to why, I cannot say…”

“Paul…” agreed the owl, fluffing up his feathers. “John…”

“I’m certainly not,” said Aziraphale, feeling as fluffed as the owl. “I am just doing what I think is best.”

“These lands you say you come from…” Myrddin said. “Tell me again where they lie…?”

“It’s … far away. Far away. Quite a distance. I’m terrible with direction. But you have to ascend to get there. Very…very bright place you know… so er…” he chuckled nervously. “High up…”

The old Druid’s eyes narrowed and Aziraphale felt pierced through and through. He tried to appear trustworthy and noble but he could see the suspicion rolling off the man in waves.

“And yet,” said Myrddin. “Even the wisest ones and most traveled have never heard of Angleland.”

“Oh— well— yes I er…”

“Do not be uncharitable, I pray, dear Myrddin,” said Lancelot and Aziraphale tried not to openly sigh with relief. The man’s elagant reassuring hand settled between his shoulder blades. “There are many places under Heaven that none have seen, are they not? We are blessed that he should come to our court, are we not? Our rainbow knight.”

“Oh, you do go on,” Aziraphale said, flushing in earnest now. Honestly it wasn’t a moniker he was sure he liked, and he wasn’t even convinced he’d earned. But it certainly felt nice to hear.

“And as you have said in your own wisdom, a wise man does not go easily to war.” The knight gave a charming smile and bowed. “After all, it is beneath us to smite the weak and there is nowhere a weaker more beaten man than Hereweald.”

Well it wasn’t exactly as Aziraphale might have put it but at least Myrddin seemed marginally satisfied, even amused.

“Now, if I may, I must spirit my friend away from your confidences,” said Lancelot, steering Aziraphale away before either of them could protest. Aziraphale felt the relief grow as that table slipped behind them, left for another day.

“I know that you will make the right decision,” Lancelot continued. “I just hope it will before we do crawl into our graves.” He laughed and Aziraphale laughed nervously with him. Honestly, he did too, though who knew when Heaven would deign to answer. If it waited too long he may be forced to decide on his own.

“By the way, _mon ami_ ,” said Lancelot. “You have chambers near the East Wing, yes? At the top of the tower there.”

“Yes… actually. And it’s quite a climb, let me tell you.”

“Yes, I envy you and the state of your calves!” Another laugh and Aziraphale couldn’t help but be charmed. Lancelot pulled from the belt of his tunic a delicate white lace handkerchief that smelled faintly of perfume.

“Earlier today when the Queen was inspecting the state of the rose garden, she dropped this. I rescued it from the cold ground. Do you think you could return it to her maid? She is passing by that wing this evening, and many others. Very close to the stables after all.” There was a twinkle in Lancelot’s eye.

“Oh… of course. She must love horses.” He took the handkerchief and tucked it up his sleeve. Lancelot laughed heartily.

“Yes, so I’ve heard. Good night, _Monsieur_. I seek a meal and my bed for the jousting practice tomorrow! We must be prepared for that tourney.”

“Yes! We must.”

Cursed tourney.

He waved Lancelot farewell and then turned toward the East Wing. Perhaps he would pretend to trip or fall or do himself an injury as an excuse not to fight. It was hardly fair after all and he could barely sit a horse at anything faster than a trot, let alone sit at a charge whilst carrying a lance. He tried very hard to think of some excuse to get out of the proceedings as he went through to his wing. Nothing appealed— and all too soon his mind returned to the meeting. To that dreadful choice he would have to make.

There was not help for it. He’d have to write Gabriel another missive. The Archangel would be quite cross with him, but he needed _some_ direction and soon. How should he word the missive then? Something politely urgent but not too demanding. He had to remind him pleasantly of his need for clear direction without making it seem like he had thought Gabriel had forgotten.

Oh, How should it go?

“Dear Gabriel.”

No, certainly not.

Something perhaps a little more professional.

“Archangel Gabriel, I have come to you once more on a matter of some urgency— which— I have said previously, has only— gotten more urgent in your—er—continued neglect? Goodness, no. You certainly can’t say that.”

“Sir, please,” he said, absently addressing a tapestry of the Great King Arthur slaying a dragon. “If you could but spare me a moment of your time…”

“He has no time to spare for anyone.”

The rich amused voice brought Aziraphale to the present. Queen Guinevere stood by one of the wide windows looking into the courtyard, the last gasps of the sun squinting in and picking out the russet tones in her dark hair.

“Though plenty for his beautiful Knights. Strange that you should be left out,” she continued. Though the words in and of themselves might be bitter, she spoke in a teasing tone as if a hairsbreadth from laughter and her dark eyes glimmered with good humor.

“Well, I am hardly a favorite of the court these days, I’m afraid,” Aziraphale said, even as he knew he should say something charming or witty and not take her joke quite so seriously. He remembered himself then and genuflected just as much as was proper. “My lady.”

“Sir Aziraphale.” She returned the gesture in kind. “Surely the one who has challenged the Black Knight would have _much_ favor in Arthur’s court. They say you are to do mighty battle with him in the tourney.”

Who on earth was saying that? Aziraphale wondered.

“Only if the rascal shows up,” Aziraphale replied. “Which I highly doubt he will. He is far cleverer than that.” And would hopefully continue to be clever and out of Aziraphale’s hair. He did _not_ need a Black Knight on top of this mess. Guinevere smiled at this, but her eyes remained on him like a cat at a mousehole as if she was expecting something. He racked his mind but could think of nothing. Well, perhaps it would come to him later. Right now he had a missive to write.

“Well, good evening, your Majesty.”

Here was the door that lead to the stairwell that lead to the passage that looped around and lead to the _other_ stairwell which coiled about like a serpent until finally he reached his quarters. He was not looking forward to the climb, but then, he never did.

“Sir Aziraphale,” said Queen Guinevere the moment he had his hand on the door ring. He fixed a smile to his face and turned toward her, trying not to appear impatient.

“Yes, my lady?”

She hesitated, flexing just the tips of her fingers together and looking at them, before folding both hands elegantly in front of her.

“Do…you have anything for me?” she said. The waiting cat look remained about her face, but there was something almost anxious in there too. Did he have anything? No, why—

Oh!

“Yes! Actually. I was meant to give it to your handmaiden for you. But I—er — suppose in person will suffice.” A nervous laugh escaped him before he could stop it. Feeling annoyed with himself, he pulled her delicate handkerchief from his sleeve and presented it to her with a little flourish. A smile slipped over her face as she took it from him. A sort of secret smile, shadowed at the corners. She held the handkerchief between the thumb and forefinger of each hand as if inspecting it.

“Sir Lancelot found it, my lady. You had dropped it.”

“How careless of me.” She pressed the handkerchief to her cheek as if it were precious to her. “And where did you say he found it?”

“The er— rose garden, I believe.”

“ _Merci,_ ” she all but whispered.

He was a touch surprised by the sudden softening of her demeanor, not to mention the French, though it was hardly any of his business. She didn’t look in need of succor or guidance and he really did need to get on.

“Good evening,” he said again. Queen Guinevere nodded in a slow way as if she’d only half heard him and went on her way, passing from sunlight into shadow. Aziraphale went through the door and began writing and rewriting the missive in head as he traversed the stairs and floors to his lofty apartments.

Only a few knights were housed on this side of the castle, and while his Squire and Page complained profusely and loudly just within earshot of the distance they had to cross to bring him this or that. Still it was worth it to be away from all those dreadful prying eyes and requests to socialize where he must be someone else at every guarded moment.

Aziraphale was beginning to realize he preferred the solitude. The stillness. The peace.

Even if he hated the climb.

Still the exercise did give him time to think up a suitable missive and by the time he got to his smallish chambers he had it. He cleared his small table and brought out a fresh sheet of parchment. He did so hate to use it. It was among the last of the ones he’d gotten in Constantinople, and were of the very highest quality. It did not catch in the eagle feather quill and the words flowed crisp and clear.

_To whom it may concern,_

He wrote. Then hesitated and added:

_Preferably the Archangel Gabriel if he isn_ _’t terribly busy._

_I am still waiting on consultation with regards to the Herewaeld matter._

_I understand that Heaven is busy, but the human matter is rather coming to a head._

_Sincerest regards,_

_Aziraphale_

_Principality, Guardian of the Eastern Gate, etc_

He hesitated for one moment longer, then folded the parchment. A kiss to his pinky ring, which he then set upon the missive as a holy seal. It flashed brilliantly gold for a moment, then disappeared leaving behind a pleasant scent, like a garden after the rain. There. That was gone. Hopefully he would receive _some_ response soon. Time seemed to slow and even the smallest noise made him turn his head, but the small chamber remained quiet and empty of any celestial presence but his own.

Desperate for something to distract himself with, Aziraphale crossed the room to open the shutter.

The other advantage to the tower room was the view. He could see the town of Camelot and the winding road leading from it, over the soft rolling hills to a small village beyond, nestled in a small valley, the twilight turning the white of the wattle and daub huts a tired blue.

On the Eastern side of the village, Camelot’s farmlands combed the hillside. To the West and further still, white sheep like small clouds dotted the landscape. On the other side of the road, crowded back but still very present, the King’s Forest. It was dark and deep, shrouded in mystery and mists. There were the bristly boars, the tender proud deer, the wolves with eyes like lambent moons. The Almighty’s creation in all its splendor.

Constantinople this wasn’t, but there _was_ something about Brittany in all its wild and barbaric beauty. There was hardly any culture worth speaking of and the cuisine, well, one could hardly call it that— Yet there was a kind of quietness about it. The way the evening came so gently on. The stirring of the breeze that brought with it the faintest scents of new cut hay. Even the stars appearing in the soft purpling twilight added to the calm.

Despite his earlier anxiety, a kind of content washed over him, helped on by the vaguely domestic sounds that began behind him. He could hear Daffyd stirring up the fire and later the scrape of plates on the table, carrying it with the aroma of minced lamb and baked apples and new cheese. There would be a goblet of spiced wine there too, warmed and pleasant.

The answer was simple of course, he thought, leaning his cheek against the heel of his hand. Heaven would not permit a battle. This land may have been won by bloodshed, but now it had become a land of peace, by Arthur’s very hand. Love infused Camelot to the very stones and crept out like seeking vines into the town and the village beyond—perhaps the forest too. It was truly a wondrous place, an enchanted place, a _blessed_ place. That was why he was here, after all, to preserve this. So naturally, Heaven would want him to do what was best.

“Your food’s getting cold, Sir Aziraphale,” Daffyd said.

“Ah, thank you Daffyd.” Aziraphale moved from the window to where his meal had been set on the table. It wasn’t fancy, but it was homey and Aziraphale was beginning to appreciate that. The fire crackled merrily just to his left, casting the room in dancing shadows. He cut into the lamb, which was quite delicate in flavor and hummed in appreciation. Daffyd offered him a grin as he went around the room, straightening this and that, turning down a corner of the coverlet in the heavy oak bed.

He was a good lad. An orphan. Mother dead in childbirth as so many were, bless them, father a servant of Arthur, who had died doing the King a great service during a particularly bloody battle. It was a sign of Arthur’s generosity that Daffyd was even a Page at all. It was a position usually for those sons on the higher echelons of society and not of peasant stock. But as a page the boy had opportunity to become a squire and perhaps even a knight one day, with a small fief of his own.

“I hear we’re to fight Bug Eyed Herewoald in an awfully great battle,” said Daffyd. Aziraphale couldn’t help the curl of a smile that he tried to keep secret. He instead indulged in a sip of wine, then dabbed his lips with a linen napkin.

“Perhaps there won’t be a battle,” he said, unable to keep the pride completely from his voice.

Daffyd paused from pulling the shutter closed and blinked at him owlishly in the firelight.

“Everyone says there will be. That it’ll be a great bloody set to— pardon, m’lord— and that there will be honor and glory at the end of it. Don’t you want honor and glory, Sir Aziraphale?”

No, he most certainly did not! And not in that way.

“There is more to honor and glory than found in battle.” And humans took far too much of it in stride. Brutality was the name of the game and pride was based on how many you had slain. Or it used to be thus. He was sure that this place would help to change all of that. With a little nudge from Heaven, of course.

“I suppose, sir,” said Daffyd. “But I’d still like to be in a awful big battle if I were a knight. It seems like great fun, sir.”

“Yes, well, perhaps you’ll change your mind when you’re older.”

“I don’t think so, sir,” said Daffyd. “If it’s alright, I’m going down now, sir, but I’ll come up and collect the plates if you’ll set them out the door. Also Squire Reginald wants to speak with you about borrowing a horse, sir.”

“Borrowing a horse?” Why on earth would Aziraphale want to do that?

“Yes, sir. He says that ol’ Genny is a nice mare and all, but she’s not suited for a tourney, sir. You’ll need something better. Maybe you can get Smasher, sir.” The boy grinned at the statement. Aziraphale didn’t have much of anything to do with the stables, but he knew of Smasher. He was a white stallion whose official name was something like Light-Bringer, but his fierce temper and nasty temperament gave him the tendency to try to clip anyone who annoyed him with his hooves. Aziraphale had healed more than one broken rib in his time here.

“Tell Squire Reginald that I shall speak to him in the morning, but that Smasher is definitely not the on the table.” And, with any luck, the tourney would as well.

The boy heaved a great disappointed sigh.

“As you say, sir. I’ll be off then, sir. Have a good night.”

Aziraphale had a final glimpse of the boy’s bowed head before the door closed behind him. Aziraphale almost hated that he would have to disappoint the lad. It wasn’t uncommon for humans to think only of the glamor of war, and forget the consequences of it. Daffyd would come to thank him in time, of that he was sure.

So content was he in this knowledge that he almost forgot the missive entirely. He was rather surprised when, after a pleasant meal and perhaps a bit more wine than was necessary, a folded sheet of creamy paper appeared in a flash of light. Aziraphale set his own scroll to the side and went to retrieve it, smiling as he opened the heavy paper.

His smile dropped, his heart as well as he read the single line. He turned the paper back and forth, hoping for some addendum, some footnote, something. There was nothing but the words and the flaming gold of Gabriel’s seal.

Heaven didn’t understand. It couldn’t. Yet it must for all the words Aziraphale had written them, detailing the situation.

There was their answer in black on cream.

_Vote with the King_.

War was coming and there was nothing he could do to stop it.

////\\\\\\\

There were three more knights coming down the road, the hooves of their horses drumming a steady, cheerful beat against the hard packed earth, as they made their merry way toward Camelot. Crowley scowled at them from where he leaned in the shadow of a spreading aspen a little away from the road. Here the road dipped once more into the forest, following the gentle rise of the hill before either going straight toward the city itself or breaking off and heading toward the King’s Field.

The field was actually a great sodding meadow, full of colorful tents now and the muck of horses and great sweaty humans. Crowley and Slow Richard had watched them all morning, charging at each other with bloody great lances or beating each other with bloody great swords—laughing amiably and clapping each other on the shoulders with hands the size of small hams.

At first it he’d been amused by watching them practice at battle as humans did. It had reminded him a bit of the gladiatorial arenas in Rome or the wrestling competitions that sometimes broke out in the mead hall at Slanghjem.

He’d even indulged in a bit of fun; making a practice sword break here or having one of the training dummies bean a knight repetitively no matter how hard he’d tried to get away. Tempers rose but generous laughter and a good dose of beer or ale from his fellows helped calm it. Crowley had been content to watch the practice all day—that was until Slow Richard said that he couldn’t wait to see him up there.

Wherepon Crowley had discovered that:

Firstly, this was what a tourney was and

Secondly, he was meant to participate in it and

Thirdly, and most importantly, every single ruddy knight was after his head like a bloody trophy.

And there had been a lot of them trickling steadily into Camelot for days now. Some knights wore bright, rich clothes and trains of servants and goods, laughing as they went— some had duller clothes and smaller retinues that still sang cheerfully along the way. Then there were these three, hard bitten with the lean wolfish look of long time soldiers or men who found their fortune any way they could.

These types were Knights-Errant Two Drink Tom had explained the other day. Poor bastards out for a bit of whatever they could get. They did have a lean hungry look about them like starving wolves desperate for the kill. Or if not that, a chance at proper lands and so on which was practically promised in a tourney like this, Two Drink Tom had told him, if they did well. 

From Crowley’s perspective, they looked like they’d do very well. Beside lances, they each had sturdy looking swords strapped to their waist. Thick muscle corded their arms and legs and added girth to their necks. If he were a betting demon, and he usually was, he’d say the odds were in their favor.

Most concerning though was the banner one of them carried, that flapped from the end of their lance. A Black Knight on a green field with its head neatly lopped off, red tendrils flowing from it.

Crowley hissed at it through his teeth, absently running a hand over his neck. He was absolutely fucked if he went through with this. More buggered than a Bacchanalian in a brothel. What he had thought would just be a little grandstanding; show up, be ominous, bring up some infernal power to distract and maybe nip off for a bit of wine and a chat with an angel turned into—well— _this_. This bashing, slashing show of jovial masculinity, that would turn into bloody minded masculinity, that would turn him into paste.

It was his own fault really.

Mostly his own fault.

The reputation of the Black Knight seemed to have exploded overnight without him even doing much. Apparently he’d graduated to chicken theft and burning a village or two to mass slaughter and feeding virgins to dragons or something like that.

He didn’t mind that part on principle. The less effort he had to put in for this stupid charade, the happier he was. Besides which he was going to get around one day to burning virgins and all that. Great virgin burning demon, him. Just you never did find the time. He had even helped spread those rumors himself, sending Two Drink Tom and Harriet out to speak in hushed voices about the Black Knight and what he had done and what he intended to do.

Maybe he’d stepped a bit over the mark at the promising to destroy Camelot and send it to decay and ruin. Maybe he shouldn’t have gone quite so full on. Maybe he should have stopped and thought for two bloody seconds, but he hadn’t expected them to be so gungho.

And now he was going to be absolutely fucked unless he found a way to wriggle out of it. He clicked his fingers as the knights rode out of sight. The hard packed road happily doubled back on itself, leading them further into the forest and a track that would send them right back in a loop as it was bloody tired of being trodden on all day.

It felt good. Gave some much needed relief. He was getting overexcited. Crowley took a few deep breaths and centered himself. It would be fine. The point of him coming here was not to compete in some tourney but to talk to Aziraphale. After he did that, he could find some excuse to escape. Some other evil to do that wouldn’t end with him an ashy little smear on the grass.

He reminded himself of this as he turned his gaze, and reluctantly himself, to Camelot.

It was a beautiful place, he thought as he approached the still somewhat distant city slowly through the trees. It was small compared to other citadels and castle towns he’d seen in Babylon and Jerusalem —had nothing on the Imperial Palaces in Luoyang but then what did?

Still, for the small wild island of Brittany, it was the biggest thing around. There was something else about it too. Something about the way the quartz hidden in the white stone walls glanced and flickered in the sunlight. How the towers rose strong and proud, capped with conical rooves of azure. Pennants blew and snapped in the breeze atop those towers, showing without shame who lived there.

The King of the Land.

Arthur of Camelot.

Crowley decided he hated it

He itched to go inside those walls and cause some trouble. Maybe hide a treasure chest of gold _soliduses_ somewhere to be found and watch people fight over whom it really belonged to. Or block off all the side streets and allies with mysteriously appearing pig shit, thus flooding all traffic to the main streets making everyone frustrated and tense. Another favorite was buying every prostitute in town and sending them on a holiday in town to raise the ire of some and the lust of others.

Those were just daydreams though. Musings to pass the time. He wouldn’t dare do them, first and foremost because it might annoy Aziraphale who would have to deal with it and he needed Aziraphale as un-annoyed as possible. Secondly, odds were that that castle and castle-town were THEM blessed. He doubted he’d even be able set a toe through the gate before being smote sooner than he could say Bjorn Bjornsson.

It had for a moment created a bit of a strategic hurdle in trying to find a way to speak with Aziraphale. He had human minions of course, who could get in and out no matter how evil they were, but he didn’t want them to know yet what he had planned. All three of them had their hearts set on the tourney. Two Drink Tom had even plucked up the courage to brush Nyxx. The stallion only allowed it out of a mix of vanity and eagerness to participate, Crowley knew with a sick feeling. _No_ one would take it well. So best save that reveal for the absolute last moment, and hopefully when he had a better plan.

After some internal debating, the only course of action he could come up with was to go to the gate himself and ask for Aziraphale to be brought to it. It did make him feel like a bit of a beggar at the door, which was why he’d tarted himself up a bit in a fashion he’d nicked from one court or another and added his own flair to it.

The outfit itself was simple really, black tunic with blacker snake device on it, a black hood with a black tippet, a black belt with a silver Oruboros buckle that Freja had given him, black hose, and elegant black shoes that curled up at the toes and spiraled a bit. Road dust wouldn’t touch it but it wanted to. And of course the black lenses he’d had for a while now. A couple hundred years on the outside. He was thinking of changing them up in a decade or so to something a little more interesting.

Still, simple though it was, the clothes spoke in several layers of meaning. To the humans it said he was wealthy, yet not gentry. Enough to be afforded respect but not enough to have to fend off hangers on. To the angel, he hoped, it said that he still had a bit of devilish charm and hadn’t stopped being a demon, but preferred to live in the world as it was rather than to twist and shape it into whatever form hell desired. He liked to think of it as elite casual.

His words would have to be elite casual too. His entire demeanor. After all, he couldn’t approach Aziraphale _too_ gratefully. He had to pretend he’d known it would happen all along. But not _too_ arrogant either so the angel would be tempted to change his mind. Somewhere in the middle. He would have to acknowledge without saying anything that they were… they were… in a kind of— mutual benefit. Not partners exactly because that would go over like a lead balloon, but just two celestial beings of opposing sides who had decided to skive off and peer intently in opposite directions from any Good or Evil that was being done.

By the time he got to the outer walls, his entire look was firmly cemented. He was assured. Confident. And only a little put off his game by standing right before those gleaming white walls. Definitely a holy city, he couldn’t help but think. And so cheerful. There were garlands of flowers on the walls too. Garlands. Of flowers! And music coming through the open portcullis. The sound of laughter. Even here on this side of the drawbridge there were merchants and peasants and land owners rubbing elbows and waiting their turn to cross the sky blue bridge where even the waters underneath seemed to wink cheerfully in the sunshine.

It was giving him— feelings. Feelings which he tried to tamp down as best he could because they were dangerous ones to have and not suitable for a demon anyway. Focus, he thought. He had to meet Aziraphale, acknowledge the…acknowledgement, then figure out how to skive off the tourney without getting any minions or— more importantly— hell— upset.

Crowley cast about for a likely messenger and saw a stern looking woman with an expression that seemed to be set in permanent scowl. There was something unappealingly no nonsense about her which might appeal to the angel. Yet even she, Crowley noted with a tinge of disgust, had a crook of a smile about her mouth as she waited her turn in line.

The hen under her arm bawked at him in alarm as he approached and he kept just out of pecking reach, having had his fill and then some of chickens. The woman glanced at him, her gaze swept up and down and her frown turned disapproving which made him feel a little better.

“Madam,” he started.

“Ain’t no madam. I’m a Goodwife, and you best remember that.”

“Goodwife,” he tried again. “I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

She snorted and the chicken glared in avian malevolence.

“Not likely. I don’t go in with gingers. You’re the devil’s servants, you are.”

Really? Crowley bit his tongue to keep the withering sarcasm from escaping. Hair color had bullocks to do with evil, nor did skin color and even black wasn’t inherently evil, it just looked stylish and went with everything and when everything was going to be coated in boiling tar anyway you may as well just go with it. It was so bloody arbitrary that he was tempted to give _her_ a little ginger just to ruin her day.

But no. He had to focus.

He smirked instead.

“Not denying it. And I’m not asking you to do it for free either.” He punctuated his point with the greatest temptation humans had ever devised— all by themselves to boot. He held out his hand where a small pile of gold coins lay. Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, but he could see the interest too, felt the small spike of it off her. Just a little hint of avarice corrupting her staunch morals. It was beautiful to see.

“I’m listenin’,” she said.

“I’m looking for a knight. Fair-haired, blue eyed, shining armor, angelic.” That about covered it right? “Bring him to the gate for me and I’ll give you this and more.”

“All now.” She held out her hand.

“Half now.” He laid a few coins in her palm, knowing that she might use said morals to decide that she could get on fine with a small fortune and didn’t really need a large one. She was not one, after all, to go in with gingers.

The woman took a coin, bit it and then, seeming satisfied, tucked both into the top of her dress. The chicken clucked menacingly and Crowley stopped himself from taking a step back. He knew better than to show fear to a hen.

“Treat me false and you’ll face the king’s justice, you will,” said the woman, drawing a finger across her throat.

“I’m as good as my word,” he said with a small bow. She nodded, satisfied, telling him that wordplay was not her forte. He watched her go in, feeling a stab of envy himself as she passed under the arrow toothed portcullis. He brushed the emotion away and arranged himself against a convenient tree. Arms folded, on leg crossed over the other, indolently waiting.

Soon Aziraphale would appear at that gate and Crowley would smirk and tilt his head just so. The angel would follow him across the sloping lawn here and into the cool of the wood. And under the striped light of the trees they might talk. Maybe even shake hands. The last time he had felt Aziraphale’s hand was when he’d pulled the angel off the dining couch, and he’d been shocked how smooth it was, almost silken in his grip, yet fierce. He remembered that hand bunched in the back of his tunic as they veered and stumbled down the dark narrow streets.

That seemed a world ago. That seemed like a different Aziraphale almost. An Aziraphale who might be more inclined to make some sort of arrangement, rather than the completele Do Gooder he seemed to be now. Maybe the angel had since remembered how to be that Aziraphale again. Maybe they could even get a drink at one of the surrounding villages. Try some food. Get a little drunk. Forget everything about what they were supposed to be doing.

Crowley watched the gate like a hawk, a fluttery feeling in his stomach. The fluttering began to turn a bit queasy as the few moments stretched into many moments and the line of people pouring into Camelot got shorter. Had that woman stiffed him? Had her morality taken over? Would he have to risk that holy city himself?

“Look!” cried a man on the bridge in a tone of such reverence it sent the butterflies from Crowley’s stomach to beat tiny wings against the inside of his chest.

“It’s him!” said a woman.

Crowley relaxed again, keeping his gaze to the side and out over the forest as if he didn’t much care. He heard the excited murmurs of the crowd. Heard someone come closer to him across the grass. Tried to remember how to breathe then remember he didn’t have to.

“You asked for me?”

Crowley’s head snapped round so quick if he were human he would have broken something. The voice was light and melodious and rich and not Aziraphale’s. Another knight stood in front of him. Sure he was blond and blue-eyed and seemed to have a shining armor type of aura even if at the moment, he was wearing a dark blue tunic worked in silver—Crowley could even see where a human might think the man was a touch angelic. That just went to show that humans couldn’t even see beyond their own noses half the time.

“No,” said Crowley. His voice came off a bit sour and the man’s eyebrows rose. He wanted to tell him to sod off but then the sensible part of him pulled the reins and pointed out the opportunity here. “Sorry. Been a bit of a mix up. Looking for Sir Aziraphale? Of the Table Round?”

The man’s face broke into a wide grin and he laughed.

“Ah! You are a compatriot of our Rainbow Knight!”

“Not compatriot,” Crowley said, maybe too quickly. Was that a flicker of darkness between the trees or just him? Did the air seem a little more sulphuric?

“Acquaintance then.” The man’s hand clapped on his shoulder. “I have not seen him yet today but I can show you where he may be found.”

Before Crowley knew it he was being steered toward the bridge.

Fuck. Shit. Bloody— wanker — piss. It was all he could do not to drag his heels, or else pivot and go bolting in the other direction. He was going to be discorporated. Turned inside out. Maybe blasted to dust.

“I— Look if it’s all the same to you I’ll wait for him out here.”

“You need not fear, _mon ami_ ,” said the knight as if he knew of the cold sweat that was starting to bead the back of Crowley’s neck. “All are welcome in this fair city so long as they enter in peace.”

Enter in peace, exit in pieces.

Of course if he was caught in that bloody tourney he was going to be exiting in pieces anyway.

No hope for it. He’d have to give it a go. Maybe if he started smoldering or felt the hairs on the back of his neck raise he could slingshot into the moat.

Holding his breath, Crowley crossed the threshhold—

\--And nothing happened.

The day continued bright and beautiful without even a rumble of warning thunder. Not even the prickle of heat under his shoes. The world hadn’t changed a bit.

It meant something. Something significant. But he was too frazzled to make it out just now. The human laughed warmly beside him and Crowley found himself liking the man and hating himself for it.

“You see? I told you. Now come. I will show you the way.”

He was lead further into Camelot, stopping only to shove some more coins at the chicken woman— and even she seemed happier now. It was still a dangerous place, Crowley realized. There was something in the air. A giddiness. A kind of sunlit joy brought on by human happiness. A festive air. Musicians played from street corners where a few people danced. The traffic, unusually heavy for such a cramped castle town, moved freely and people met accidents with cheer and apology and laughter.

What the heaven was this place?

Crowley swallowed past the strange surge of emotion and wonder and said:

“You called Sir Aziraphale: ‘Rainbow Knight’?” Crowley said, glad for that little nugget of interest to keep his attention from troubling thoughts.

“Oh, yes,” said the man. “It is a grand tale and I do it no justice by telling you here. Perhaps if we meet again I can make a better show of it. But the setting is thus: A great gray rolling moor, a rain— such a rain as rarely seen, even in this sodden country.” He chuckled.

“We, the bold and brave of Camelot had been mired for four days, making our weary way to Sir Ector’s stronghold after a long and brutal battle. Our beloved Arthur was wounded and the Physician feared he might even lose his strong right arm. Not even the tinctures and spells of Myrddin seemed to do any good. We were fair to miserable, plagued with worry and doubt.

“But then! Lo and behold!” The man gripped his shoulder, pointing at something in the distance. Crowley looked eagerly and saw a man selling turnips by a tavern. “There on the hillock! A shine of sunbeam! A break in the clouds like the finger of god and who stands within it? Why, a knight in shining armor that no rain seems to touch! Instead it mists around him, seems to glint off the shining plate of his armor, he carries a helm in the crook of one arm and above his pale hair, a fine rainbow!”

The turnip merchant had misted away too and Crowley saw what the knights must have. That being standing in a sunbeam, looking down on the awed party with pale blue eyes remote as heaven. In Crowley’s imagination there were wings too, pure white and spread, casting off droplets of fine rain, glinting in the sun that almost seemed to illuminate them into further radiance.

“Has one of the fair folk come to our aid?” Continued the man in a hushed voice. He was reaching out, as if wanting to pull the divine to him. “Or perhaps an angel sent by the most high to give us succor and aid? If we weren’t already mired to our knees, we would have fallen to them.”

Crowley didn’t blame them. If he’d seen a sight like that, he would have—

Would have what?

The realization of what just ran through his mind hit him like a welcome dose of ice water. None of that! Thoughts like that could get a demon into a lot of trouble! Even more so than being in Camelot which he currently was and didn’t seem so bad. But this was an entirely different kettle of fish. So the angel was beautiful? So what? So were plenty of demons! So was a sodding sunset and it wouldn’t get his skin flayed from his bones by holy lightning or red hot iron or withering disappointment.

“Guess he made an impression,” Crowley managed. It wasn’t the cleverest line that had come out of his mouth but the man chuckled and patted his shoulder.

“He did indeed! Especially when he sneezed and the rain returned as sudden as it had before, and more, drenching one and all in the process. We all had head colds for a fortnight.” They resumed their walk through the streets, wending around a bevy of ladies who waved at the man and he cheerfully returned it.

“Many think he was an ill omen, but I disagree. If not for him we would have spent even longer trying to find Ector’s lands as we realized we’d strayed. I also believe that our charity in taking him in was what gave us favor in the Lord’s eyes and healed our beloved’s arm.”

“THEY’re pretty arbitrary like that,” Crowley said, just to get a dig in.

“And otherwise he is a very warm soul, like a pint of honey mead near a fire on a winter’s day,” the man said as if Crowley hadn’t spoken. “A bringer of peace to our sometimes contentious and fiery lot. I say that it will be a sad day when he decides to return to Angleland.”

Angleland?

“Or else resume his quest for the Holy Grail.”

Holy…what?

They’d stopped once more at a little market square with rose colored stones in a delicate mosaic that had to have either come from somewhere near Constantinople or created by someone who had been there. The man patted his shoulders once more before dropping his hand.

“Here is the Queen’s Market,” said the man. “I have often found Sir Aziraphale here on golden afternoons such as this. That he is not here is curious, but he might be preparing for the tourney.”

Bloody tourney. He’d better not be.

“I shall see if I can find him and send him to you if you but wait. If not him, a messenger by evening’s light to say where he might be. If you are in need of food or drink until then, you may ask for the gratitude of Sir Lancelot.”

“Right,” Crowley said. “Good.” He tried to make his tone sound like a thank you since he didn’t dare say it aloud yet. The man pressed against his own chest and gave a small bow from the shoulders before turning into the crowds.

Crowley waited until he’d gone and then tried to pick an appropriately shadowy part of the market to lurk. There was a little wall here leading to an upper walkway and a lattice of climbing flowering vines. It didn’t offer much shadow but at least he could look faintly ominous if he stood there with his arms folded. He tried to glower too a little. He didn’t want to cause a stir but he couldn’t just let things go by him, could he?

Only the glower didn’t last and he even found his arms relaxing as he watched the goings on. The humans were… happy. Cheerful. There was a festival air about that place and one that didn’t involve humiliating others or beating them to a pulp. No one was even liquored up, or smoked or anything like that. Children ran about laughing and playing on the streets, people greeted one another in pleased tones, even the haggling seemed jovial.

Then a little rose cheeked girl offered him a vine of honeysuckle to braid into his hair and he was lost. He thanked her and left a coin or two hidden in the bottom of her basket, tempting her or or at least her family into greed or some such thing and began to wander the stalls, peering at this and that.

One merchant offered him a single amber bead to set around his wrist, another gave him a sample of her honey mead, from her hives near king’s forest, never would find happier bees. He felt he could taste it in the warm freshness of the beer. The best thing about this place he thought, was that THEY had nothing to do with it. It was just— humans— deciding to be good to one another as only humans could.

A bubble of laughter caught his attention and he found himself wandering out of the Queen’s Market to where a small audience had gathered around a puppet stage. On stage, a black dragon, gorgeously articulated, was breathing a plume of ribbon fire at a knight in blue that ran back and forth clutching his bum. Crowley laughed with the rest of them. Who wouldn’t? It was hilarious!

He watched and laughed with the others as another knight appeared after the first, lost his head to a vicious bite and went chasing after it. Knight after Knight appeared, one even looking a bit like Aziraphale eating a little cake until that was roasted by the dragon and he scarpered. Crowley snickered behind a hand at that one. Even if, really, Aziraphale would have probably told off that dragon and scared the scales off it.

After a couple more puppets, there was a tinny fanfare and the last puppet appeared, grave faced and fair-haired, his armor shone and on it was the same red gryphon sigil that was borne on the pennants flapping above Camelot.

The king had arrived.

The audience gasped in unchecked reverence. A man beside him even removing his hat and pressing it to his chest. They were adorable. These humans. They had so much love and respect for this man who had helped create this place for them.

And it was such a fragile balance, Crowley knew. A little rumor here, a bribe there, it was easy to upset the peace if you knew what you were doing and Crowley had a lot of practice. He could really give the angel a run for his money. Peace was always harder to maintain than chaos was to start.

But he wouldn’t.

And since Aziraphale wouldn’t push too far toward good either, they would get to see what became of Camelot. What these made of themselves. Also maybe than he and the angel could nip off, he for a pint, Aziraphale for— whatever it was he did in his down time. No hassle. No drama. Just letting the humans get on with things. It would be perfect.

Maybe they would usher in a golden age that would last for centuries and take the world on a completely different course.

Though they still had a way to go Crowley thought as he watched the dragon get run through by the king’s shining sword to the cheers an adulation of the others. Some clever mechanism of the puppet made the dragon husk fall open, revealing the red insides. People clapped and whistled and a child piped up that she wanted to do it next.

Crowley rubbed his own sternum in sympathy.

The show ended soon after that, the King puppet ascending among golden ribbon, looking like beams of light, because of course he did. The other puppet knights came and took their bows even as the dragon continued to lie dead and open on the ledge. Then after a moment of cheering and general applause, the dragon stitched itself back together and, with a clever claw, tapped a brass bowl attached to the stage just underneath.

The humans took turns throwing coins into the bowl. Crowley looked around to make sure no one was watching too closely before sweeping up and putting in some coins himself. The dragon’s head swung up toward him, the rubies of its eyes glinting.

“ _Well done, Crawley_ ,” the dragon said in a creaking voice. Crowley went from apprehension to stone cold fear so fast he was surprised that ice didn’t crackle on the ground under his feet.

Hell was here.

Hell had found him.

Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.

He tried to look as nonchalant as he could, even while he raced through his memories, trying to think of what Hell might be complimenting him for. Nothing came to mind and maybe ultimately it didn’t matter.

“All in a day’s work,” he said, voice rough. “Who is this?”

“ _Botis_.”

Oh, only an Earl of Hell. Glad it wasn’t anyone important like a duke or a prince. If he remembered right the demon only commanded _sixty bloody legions_ which was practically peanuts.

“My Ungracious Lord,” Crowley sketched a bow just in case he was being watched and tried to ignore the wobbling in his guts.

“ _We did not expect you to be able to invade Camelot so readily. Could it be the angel_ _’s power is failing?_ ”

“Not even a little,” Crowley said quickly. “Was a fight in a half to sneak in here, let me tell you. Had to come in the back way. That angel. Whew. Powerful. Strong. Has thirty legions of his own. More on the way.” He added to the dragon’s head tilt. “Not a pleasant place to be.”

“ _Regardless_ ,” the dragon hissed, smoke coming from his nostrils— and real smoke by the smell of burning wood and ribbon with sulphuric undertones. “ _It remains important to us that you destroy Camelot from within. Rot it. Spoil it. Devastate it. Send it crashing to its knees._ _”_

“Right.”

“ _As the Black Knight has promised._ ”

“Sure.”

Fuck fuck fuck shit fuck

“ _For now, we will go—_ ” Fire issued from the dragon’s mouth and began to lick the curtains hanging just above the stage. Once again those ruby eyes fastened on him. _“And Crawley…_ ”

“Yes, Lord?”

“ _We are keeping an eye on you_.” The ruby eyes flashed and the thing combusted into flame. Crowley had to dodge out of the way as the dragon flew toward him with a shrieking scream. For a moment he thought he might be disembowled— Then realized a second later that the scream had come from the tow-headed human who had thrown the puppet and was now clutching his singed hand, terror in every line of his face.

“What happened?” the human babbled. “What happened? What happened? What happened?”

He was beginning to cause a stir.

Crowley clicked his fingers and time grated to a stop. Hell would wonder about that one. Better make it quick. He tore the curtains down and stamped out the fire, tossed smoldering remains of the dragon into the fountain and then stared at the glassy eyed human, wondering what to say.

“Er… forget everything that happened. You’ve just been… sleeping. It was a dream.” He clicked his fingers again and the world returned to normal. The human was still heaving, his eyes wild, staring at his hand.

“What just happened to you?” Crowley asked, to test. The last thing he needed was for the human to spread the word of the conversation. The man looked at him, pupils blown wide as a faint tremor went through him.

“God preserve me… I have no idea,” he said in a hushed, scratchy voice.

THEY wouldn’t.

Crowley flicked a few coins in the man’s bowl then turned on his heel. He needed to find Aziraphale. They needed to get started on the plan _now_ before things got too out of hand.

Luck was with him and he spotted the angel in the Queen’s Market in an instant. It was hard to miss him. Aziraphale stood out. He wore a long white tunic with the frayed hem that brushed about his ankles, like a human twice as old as he appeared might. Not to mention the sandals that crisscrossed up the calf, Crowley knew from experience, were about a hundred years out of date and three thousand leagues away from where they’d ever be considered fashionable.

The biggest difference showed in the drooping of his shoulders, the way his hands came behind him, gripping one another, passive rather than active, melancholy rather than cheerful. Had something happened? Crowley came up behind him, passing behind one shoulder to the other, wondering what had gotten the angel into such a mood.

It couldn’t be good news, he thought. Perhaps he was being reassigned?

“Hello, Angel,” Crowley said as he came up beside him, speaking casually just in case someone noticed. “Have a problem?”

“So it is you,” said the angel with a frown. The words stung unexpectedly. He didn’t expect to be greeted happily—except maybe a small part of him had. “What on earth are you doing here? No…” He held up a hand before Crowley could answer. “Don’t tell me. Fomenting.” He folded his hands in front of him and huffed out a breath. “Tell me instead what on earth you want with me. And it had better not be about that little deal you proposed because I am _not_ interested.”

Another stab of disappointment deep in his gut. So it wasn’t about the deal. But if not if not that then— could the angel really had invited him to fight in the tourney? It felt disgustingly like betrayal. Bitter as ash. Cold as steel. There was fear too, but the strange bitter anger drowned it out.

He should have known. They were enemies. Angel and demon. What else would Aziraphale have wanted him for? That time with the oysters was a fluke. That time on the wall too long ago to count. And for a wild moment he _did_ want to fight him, just for the principle of the thing.

That was an idiotic thing to do, of course. He’d be flattened in an instant. There were other things though. Things that would be sure to get under his skin.

“I’m not here for anything really. Just taking in the sights. Seeing what this is all about.” Crowley stole an apple from a passing vendor, then with a flourish, offered it to a young woman standing nearby. “Care for a bite? It’s delicious.”

The young woman flushed and murmured:

“Thank you…” And she reached for it.

“Don’t you dare!” said the angel huffily. The woman paused. “It isn’t paid for!”

“Ahh, it’s a festival,” Crowley said, bouncing the apple tantalizingly. “I’m sure he won’t mind. Probably doesn’t even know it’s gone.”

“That doesn’t make it right,” the angel snapped. “Theft is theft!”

“Pity you weren’t there to say that the first time around.” It was a low blow and he knew it. But he was a demon. Low was where he lived. Where he breathed. Where all his talents lay. “Where were you anyway? Off picking some fruit of your own, were you?”

The angel flushed, then paled and sent a darting glance upward before flushing again.

“Angel, do not tell me you did,” Crowley said, a laugh surprising him before he even knew it was there. Was that _why_ no one had been around? Because Aziraphale was off snagging fruit of his own?

“Well it wasn’t _that_ tree!” Aziraphale snapped, snatching the apple from him. The young woman had long gone, Crowley realized faintly, but that didn’t matter. “And there wasn’t _supposed_ to be any evil in the Garden anyway!” He was glaring mightily and Crowley knew he should be more terrified of those flashing blue eyes than he actually was.

“I’d love to know you managed to snake in there.”

Crowley smirked and shrugged, feeling the urge to laugh again.

“I’m a demon of many talents.”

Aziraphale snorted and took a bite of the apple which Crowley just had to paint a mental image of. It was a perfect moment. A moment ordained by Satan himself. Especially since:

“You know that still isn’t paid for.”

“Oh!” The color filled the angel’s cheeks once more. “You--! Horrible--! Odious--! Wicked--!!”

“Ahh music to my ears.” He was grinning so hard it hurt. There was just something amazing about the way the angel flushed, the way he glowered, the way he upset THEIR plans just because he wanted something to nibble. He leaned in. “Bet it was a stuffed date, wasn’t it.”

“I’m no longer speaking to you!” Aziraphale drew himself up. “Good day!” And flounced off. Crowley tried to stifle the laugh, but it wasn’t easy. He sauntered after the angel instead, hoping Aziraphale didn’t remember to pay.

He did remember unfortunately, but it was worth it to hang around just in the angel’s field of vision and smirk at him as he handed the coins over. Crowley even added in a slow applause just to make the angel’s flush brighter. It worked amazingly well, and Aziraphale turned and stalked off once more.

Crowley followed him again, losing him for a moment in a flood of people exiting out the Eastern Gate. Apparently a wonderous picnic had been set up near the jousting field and anyone was welcome to come watch. Crowley put that thought away for later and continued his stalking.

Once he had caught up with the angel once more, all the amusement fled. There he was, a lonely figure standing in front of an archway to a garden, shoulders slumped, head bowed. Crowley winced. Maybe he had gone too far. Maybe the angel hadn’t had a choice but to invite him to the tourney. Maybe the angel was just as trapped as he was.

He hesitated a moment, then came to Aziraphale’s side once more. He half expected Aziraphale to snap at him or pout at him or push him away. The angel did none of those things, just sighed, hands in front of him loosely caged around the apple. Crowley felt even worse. He folded his arms and tried to think up something to say.

“If it’s any consolation, I am really good at it,” he said. Maybe it wasn’t much of a consolation but it was all he had. “Sneaking around, I mean. It’s how I’m still here.”

There was silence. He mentally kicked himself and was about to leave Aziraphale in peace when the angel spoke.

“It is a small consolation, thank you.” There was the faintest of smiles on his lips but _that_ seemed like it was consoling _him_. A part of Crowley writhed in frustration. Why did it feel so terrible? Why did he want to make it better? He was a _demon_. He was _supposed_ to want to make it _worse_.

Silence again.

He tried to think desperately of some way to fill it. Some way to put them back on even footing. Or even to cheer the angel up.

“So… Camelot… Hell of a place…” he ventured. Bloody stupid thing to say in retrospect and he could have kicked himself again the moment it dropped from his mouth. Should he have said Heaven of a place? Said something just a _little more interesting_?

“Yes,” said the angel. “It’s very unique, isn’t it? I don’t know if I’ve ever been anywhere quite like it. There is some magic here, have you noticed? Something—almost apart from the Almighty herself.”

“Yeah, I’ve noticed.” He wasn’t alight in holy fire for one. “It’s very…human.”

“Yes! I thought so too!” To his relief, Aziraphale seemed to perk up. “It’s… human magic. The power of… I don’t know. Something deeper than…every day. I can’t describe it.”

“Yeah, _yeah_ , I know what you mean.” And he did know and it was amazing knowing that he and Aziraphale were of the same mind. Of feeling that kind of presence. Of not being able to understand it. Of understanding each other. He didn’t think he’d ever done that with anyone before.

But then Aziraphale was looking sad again, distracting him.

“If it lasts…” the angel added. Sighed. Looked up over the garden. “Arthur is going to war. Well—I suppose that’s an exaggeration. It will be a battle certainly. A series of skirmishes most likely. And Heaven trusts him so he must know what he’s doing. I am _sure_ it will turn out alright in the end. No, it _must_.”

“Heaven wants it?” Crowley hazarded. It felt as if Aziraphale was telling himself this. As if he didn’t really believe it. It didn’t really phase Crowley much. Kingdoms went to war all the time and the place wouldn’t be human if there wasn’t _some_ bloodshed.

“Heaven wants what the king wants.” A wry twist of a smile. “And I am to be the one that makes the decision, that breaks the tie, that makes it happen. So it has been ordained.” He pressed a hand briefly to his own chest before dropping it again. “It shouldn’t be me. I wish it wasn’t me. I know humans will always fight, and I don’t mind guiding, counselling, doing what I must under Heaven’s auspices but—It feels… _wrong_ that I should play a role in actively deciding. But… I must.”

“I mean…” Crowley said, seeing an opening here, something for them both. “The Black Knight could…cause some trouble. You could go after him. Little fight. Little show. By the time we’re done maybe they’ll have decided on their own.” It was brilliant, really. He’d be able to get out of the tournament, Aziraphale would be able to get out of deciding—

“That sounds an awful lot like skiving off.” There was a bit of a smirk in Aziraphale’s voice and Crowley shrugged.

“Well I mean you _could_ call it that, but it’s not like we’re sipping cocoa in Chichén Itzá.”

“Cocoa?” Aziraphale frowned. “I don’t believe I’ve heard of that.”

Even better, Crowley thought, excitement flaring. He could take him and—

“Either way, it’s no good. I’ve sent too many missives and they’ll expect me to follow through,” Aziraphale said. “Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t. I’m being watched too closely.”

“Yeah…” Crowley sighed, nudging a pebble with his toe. “Me too.”

And so they were caught. Just like that. In the eternal stalemate of Good and Evil. Still, it wouldn’t be so bad if they could meet like this once in a while—just to stand here and talk. Maybe even go off for a few hours. They didn’t have to be on all the time, did they?

“Well, I should be off,” Aziraphale said after a while. The angel turned toward him, blue eyes soft. Crowley was suddenly very much aware of how narrow the archway was, how close the angel’s face, the faint smell of cinnamon that filled the air. The hairs on the back of his neck rose as if holy lightning approached, but there was no moat to slingshot into, nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, only the strange sensation of falling.

“Thank you, Crowley,” Aziraphale said. “For everything.” Crowley managed a noise. A grunt really. Something like don’t mention it. There were no words in his mouth though. Just syllables. Aziraphale breathed a laugh that was beautiful and soft and dangerous. Then he pressed the apple back into Crowley’s hand and left.

Crowley stood there, feeling numb, the falling sensation having gotten worse, and now he couldn’t tell which direction he was tumbling in the air. He could be going up or down or sideways for all he knew. He stared at the apple and tried to gather his thoughts. Tried to put his mind into some sort of focus.

Bad things were happening, he told himself, and he needed to keep on his toes. The tourney for one thing. How to get around that so he would survive it. He should be focusing on that and not how to solve Aziraphale’s problem—But Aziraphale’s problem…would be the easier to solve. The idea snuck into his mind as easily as a serpent in the garden.

After all, he was a demon sent to oppose the angel in all things. Oppose THEM in all things. And if he was opposing, then, well, he was doing his job wasn’t he? He smirked as he stroked the red skin of the apple with his thumb. As for the tourney… Something would come to mind. He was sure of it. For right now?

He had a plan to set in motion.

Crowley took a bite of the apple himself, near enough to where those other teeth marks were, then tossed the fruit over the garden wall and went on his way.


	3. Rose and Thorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein Aziraphale tries to resist temptation and Crowley tempts for all he is worth. Can something new be born from these two would-be enemies? Only time will tell.

It was raining. Pouring actually, and had been for the better part of two days. The jousting field was awash with mud, churned up by reckless knights pushing their horses unwisely in the downpour. The pennants which had so gaily waved from the King’s Field in anticipation of the sport to follow, now hung limp and washed out, like old rags too far gone to use. Town and castle reflected this mood, of dreary waiting, of surly anticipation, bets had been made when the unfortunate storm would break and laughter, at times, had a sword’s edge to it— at least for those visiting Knights that cluttered the lower halls, packed like salted fish in a barrel. The more genteel knights of Aurthur’s court spoke of God’s will or commented wryly on the capriciousness of the old gods or the fae folk.

On one hand, Aziraphale was grateful for the rain. The more it rained, the less he would have to worry about participating in that dreadful tourney. True it made everyone restless and irritable and it did require he attend various social functions and exude good cheer and peace, but at least it kept him off horseback. Perhaps with luck the deluge would last long enough to cancel the tourney altogether. But rain or not, nothing would stop the war.

Aziraphale sighed, resting his cheek on the heel of his hand as he stared out at the day. One the table in front of him was a half hearted missive, a query to his superiors asking if they really understood the gravity of the situation. They _must_ of course know, he told himself yet again. This war, this skirmish, this absolute trouncing was Arthur’s will and Heaven trusted him enough so that it should go forth. So Aziraphale ought to have faith in the King too! He straightened and once more tried to find it within himself, tried to cultivate the absolute certainty he felt when in the hands of the Almighty.

There was nothing. Emptiness. He felt almost as faithless as a demon.

Perhaps he needed some cheering up, he thought, some warming. The kitchens were a bit stretched, he knew, due to the unexpected bevy of guests, but he was sure they could miracle up a bowl of spiced duck soup.

This in mind, he got up and went into the anteroom, where Daffyd sat cross-legged, polishing the silver armor as if it needed it. He was singing softly to himself, and it made rather a charming picture until Aziraphale caught the words of the song.

“The rainbow knight in armor bright

Gallops o’er the greening llan—” the boy crooned.

“But how does he expect to fight

With a bread loaf in each hand?

‘O give me my sup, give me my mead’” the boy sang in a higher pitch.

“’Give me a fish for a sword!

For battle is for richer men!

And I cannot — My Lord!”

Daffyd paled as he spotted him, startling to his feet, the bit of armor he was polishing crashing to the wooden floor. Aziraphale took the boy’s distraction of swooping the armor up to wipe the smile from his face and try to pin a smile there instead, as if he hadn’t heard, as he if he had no idea what words the boy had been singing.

“I was wondering, dear boy.” What was he wondering? He certainly couldn’t ask for food now! Perhaps… perhaps company. Yes. No one could make amusement about company. “Could you be so kind as to fetch Sir du Lac for me?”

“Sir Lancelot? Yes, my lord.” Daffyd dipped his head. “For what reason shall I say?”

“Just that I need a word with him.”

“Of course, my lord.” The boy hurried out. Then had to hurry back to put the bit of armor down before sketching another hasty bow and scurrying away. Aziraphale sighed as the door shut behind him, staring at the gleaming armor and the fur cloak. It was the suit of a warrior, which he, he supposed, ought to be. He had been too indulgent here perhaps, too soft. If Heaven thought they ought to be preparing for war, than he preparing for war they ought to be. Perhaps Heaven would pull him out of actively participating? Well, he could only hope but he had a feeling that Camelot was to dear to allow that.

‘You could skive off,’ said the phantasm of the demon. It was only an imagining, but still Aziraphale could practically feel the presence by his left shoulder. Except for in this memory he was not wearing the plated garments of a knight, but swathed in black, face shadowed by the cowl that left only the impression of his voice whispering through. ‘They won’t know,’ the phantasm continued. ‘No one will find out.’

“They most certainly will,” Aziraphale told the phantasm, himself, the empty armor. “And anyway, that is not the point. It is the right thing to do. It is Heaven’s Will and so it Must be Done.” He straightened his tunic and lifted his head, catching his own reflection again, doubt gone replaced by angelic purity and determination. “Good will be Done, you mark my words!”

And it wouldn’t be the first, nor the last time, that Good had been done by the point of a sword. He saw his own frown before he felt it. The reality of what to come pressed like a weight between his shoulderblades. Good did not always feel good, it was true. If Good always felt good than Evil would hardly stand a chance. Suffering could be righteous in its own way. He just needed to be more stalwart, more stern, more grave—Starting from today he would be a proper angel.

All of this decided it was a bit disappointed when Lancelot was ushered into the room, frowned at his stern expression and said:

“Are you feeling well? You didn’t partake of the trifle this noon, did you? I fear it has sat too long in Cook’s larder.”

“Oh, yes, I did notice it was a bit unfortunate.” Which was all the more reason to give it up, really, the pleasures of the world, the pleasures of this Earthly Body. After all, he’d never seen Gabriel so much as _look_ at a market stall and when, at one time, offered a basket of delicious stuffed dates, had chosen not to partake. So of course Aziraphale hadn’t been able to either.

Nor should he have!

“Well if it is not that,” Lancelot continued. “For what reason did you call me? It must be grave news indeed to wear such an expression.”

Here it came. Aziraphale straightened, looking at Lancelot sternly down his nose, even if he had to tilt his head up to do so. Those golden eyebrows rose and a quirk formed at the corner of the mouth.

“I wish to discuss with you the upcoming war with Herewaeld.”

Lancelot’s laughter was like a sunshower, a surprising flicker of cool rain on a warm sunny Summer day. It was quite impossible to remain stern afterward and he imagined even Gabriel would be charmed by that musical sound, unashamed and untampered.

“You pull me from my Lady’s side to greet me with talk of this?” It was said so lightly and full of warmth that Aziraphale felt it was half a joke and that Lancelot did not truly mind. It was as if they were truly friends and despite the fact he knew they were not, for the knight was like this was everyone, it filled him with a kind of warmth.

“It is important talk.”

“A lady, sir?” Daffyd piped up from the corner. It would become the gossip of the castle whoever it was. Many had suspected that Lancelot was wooing some secret mistress, but who it was, no one had been able to pin down.

“Aye.” Lancelot ruffled the boy’s hair. “A lady most generous and fair for allowing me to stray from her side for the sake of a friend. And hear me, dear friend.” Lancelot’s hands came to rest warm on his shoulders. “I think you dwell too long on careless words and careless songs.”

Daffyd shuffled in the corner, head bowed.

“But you need not,” said Lancelot. “For I know you will prove your worth with sword and shield and lance as any a man here.”

“Oh yes.” Aziraphale tried to keep his smile. “Certainly. You’re right, of course.”

“Of course I am, _mon ami_. Now, come.” Lancelot looped an around his shoulders and Azriaphale found himself guided toward the door. “Let us leave talk of war for war. Here and now there are more pleasant things to attend to. Though the rain may dampen the earth it will not dampen our spirits and there is much merry making in the Great Hall with friends old and new.”

Merry-making certainly didn’t sound like anything a newly stern and on the correct path angel should do.

“I really oughtn’t.”

“There is a new jester, a fool most amusing—”

“You see I do have other things to do—”

“Lovely ladies, our own and visitors from outside the castle with laughter like tinkling bells.”

“Well, I certainly—”

“And handsome country squires and knights, dressed gaily for the occasion.”

“Honestly, what do you think of me?” Aziraphale sniffed. “I do appreciate a good outfit but—”

“-As well as a curious cook whose boat had become mired in the river.” Lancelot’s brow furrowed. “I hear he has a strange tale to tell of sailing from the Marble Tower on the Marmara sea and finding himself here through a series of mishaps with nothing but his boat, his tunic, and his barrels of oysters.”

“Oysters?” From Constantinople of all places? They certainly knew their way around them, and it had been so long since he’d indulged. He should not, and yet— “No. No, I—”

“Finally, my dear friend,” said Lancelot, pausing on the landing and looking into his eyes, his own face with a hint of solemnity. “It would be a service to your King. We are his Knights of the Table Round and we must show that we are happy to welcome our friends and fellow knights for they have traveled far and wide to attend this tourney. We are hosts as well, not just merry makers.”

Well, when he put it like that… Aziraphale pouted unsure how to feel about being caught in so clever a trap.

“You are as devious as a demon.”

Lancelot laughed again, sound ringing bright against the stone.

“I’d like to say as blessed as an angel.” They pushed through the final door and Lancelot paused once more, seeming a bit out of breath. “And twice as lovely.”

Well he would agree that Lancelot was quite lovely and no one look twice at him in the Heavenly Sphere if he had the divine aura about him. Granted angels being classically beautiful, or even good looking, was quite a misrepresentation of how it actually was. In any case Aziraphale decided it was best to keep his own counsel on the subject and offered a bow to the Queen who stood there before the doors of the inner courtyard. It was clear she’d just been outside as rainwater dappled her russet hair as well as the roses she held against her chest. There seemed to be a high color to her cheeks and he hoped she wasn’t getting a cold. She bowed her head graciously to them.

“Sir Lancelot. Sir Aziraphale.”

“My Queen,” said Lancelot. “You should think twice ere stepping out into the rain. It is a fair but dangerous playmate.”

“My lord,” said the Queen. “I prefer a dangerous rain to a dull hall. They say that a sword’s edge is where the thrill lies. Is it any less true for a woman?”

“Well a sword won’t give you a head cold,” Aziraphale pointed out. “Though of course it could leave you short a head.” The joke didn’t quite land as he’d intended, but he thought it fairly clever. Guinevere blinked at him as if she’d just realized he was there and Lancelot pulled himself up.

“Fair point.” The knight patted him between the shoulder blades. “Will you join us in the Great Hall, my Queen? We’re far better company than swords or rain.”

Her gaze swept them up and down and Aziraphale stood politely while Lancelot straightened. Really he would rather like to get this little set piece over with. There were oysters waiting, and if he must associate for the good of the King, he could at least slurp down one oyster before everyone else got them.

“I shall be the judge of that,” the Queen continued in honeyed tones. “And I judge you, Sir Aziraphale, as fair as a peony and as dangerous as a thunderhead.”

“Oh thank you. Oh how kind. You know I’m glad someone takes me seriously, because I really am oh—” He stopped a bit flustered as the queen tucked one of the roses into his belt. Well! He wasn’t sure if he was quite ready for _that_ level of intimacy from Guinevere. After all they had barely spoken and he wasn’t entirely sure they even qualified as acquaintances. But it was all part of being human, or human passing, he supposed.

“And you, Sir Lancelot.” She turned to the blond Knight whose faced closed in an odd way, as if he too would rather be away from her but in a way Aziraphale couldn’t quite figure out. “Are as beautiful as a thunderhead and dangerous as a peony. Ah…!” She pulled her fingers from where she was tucking the rose into Lancelot’s belt and sucked on her finger where a bright drop of blood had welled.

“And what of me, my lady?”

Aziraphale only just held in the impatient puff of breath as Arthur’s voice rose in the air. Honestly. He was tempted to provide himself a minor miracle so he could have at least _one_ oyster, even if that felt a bit like cheating. He bowed with Lancelot who murmured:

“My King,” in a lower tone and a little light seemed to have gone from his face. Guinevere swept closer to her lord, raising her hand and tucking the last rose into his sandy colored hair.

“You, my love, are both the sky and earth and only heaven can judge your worth.”

Arthur smiled and bent his head to hers, her arms curled around his neck, the feeling of love grew, curled like the leaves of a vine and it seemed the roses, plucked though they were, took on a new vibrancy. Aziraphale was touched, really he was, it was a beautiful expression of tender human emotion but really, it would be nice to get on.

“Come,” said Lancelot, his Knight in shining armor once again. Aziraphale expected some sort of poetry or jollity, but the man seemed to have gone suddenly grave. Aziraphale couldn’t imagine why unless perhaps he was worrying over the state of the Queen’s health. Aziraphale made himself an internal message that he may have to miracle away a head cold later and turned his mind to oysters— or rather, to being a Representative Knight of the Round at a Gathering to Promote King and Camelot as Ordained by Heaven and if he must eat oysters to blend in, well, it was necessary.

Before they’d even arrived to the Great Hall, Aziraphale could tell there was an _event_ taking place. The music of pipe and drum played over the noise and laughter of many people in a smallish space. Candles and lanterns had been lit to fight the gloom of the rain and cheery light washed warm out the doorway. Even the hard lines of Lancelot’s face seemed to smooth as they came closer and by the time they were in the archway he was beaming brightly, though Aziraphale couldn’t help but note the expression didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“Here we are,” said Lancelot. “Life!” A line of women and men, hands interlinked, danced by, laughing and many of them quite drunk. Once the line passed in they went and Aziraphale couldn’t help but be a little cheered by all the cacophony, the smiling faces, the tables lined up along the walls burdened with foods of all kinds. Near one of the massive fireplaces, a man in a toga heaped steaming oysters from a cauldron into a platter. Of course Aziraphale couldn’t go directly for the oysters, but he could at least mingle in that direction.

“So there you are, and you’ve brought along our dear friend.”

Aziraphale resisted the urge to sigh as Gawain made his way to them out of the crowds. He was smirking, which was never a good sign, face flushed from wine and hair tousled from Lord only knew what.

“I could not let him stay all day looming in his tower,” said Lancelot easily. “Not when there is merriment to be had.”

“Nor evil abroad.” The smirk grew wider and Aziraphale folded his hands and tried to look cheerfully oblivious to whatever might come. “I hear,” said Gawain. “The Black Knight has been spotted in Camelot.”

“Nonsense,” said Aziraphale. Because he was about to find Crowley and punt him over the city wall. Honestly! This was a strenuous enough job without him skulking about and stealing apples!

“He has been seen, armor and all, marching through the city streets.”

 _Really_. In armor? Menacing the population? Was he just trying to get under Aziraphale’s skin?

“Anyone is welcome to march through the city streets so long as they march in peace,” said Lancelot, his pleasantness strained around the edges.

“Aye, but—”

“Save your persecutions for other nights. We have guests to attend to.”

Gawain’s face flushed an angry red at the rebuke and judging by the look shot his way, Aziraphale had gained a true enemy rather than just a suspicions of a young hot headed knight. Well that would prove to be awkward and further complicate his dealings here. Not to mention that Lancelot had reminded him of another point. They were not here necessarily to have fun but to promote Peace and Well Being to all the visiting knights and so to strengthen Aurthur’s kingdom. As its Protector,he must then pull double duty and be the most cheerful and effervescent that he could manage.

“Yes! Let’s do our best to be cheerful!” He had thought it would inspire them or maybe cheer them to action, but there was only a moment of awkward silence. Gawain gave an not altogether pleasant smile to Lancelot, bowed with utter sarcasm and returned to the fray and Lancelot patted his shoulder out of pity.

“You are a good man.” Then left himself in a different direction.

Aziraphale sighed, then bucked up and got to work.

An candle mark or so later left Aziraphale feeling quite frankly exhausted. The pair of tousled young knights as big as barnhouses that Aziraphale had been trying to share Good Will with, shared a look with one another and made excuses to be elsewhere. Quite possibly into the arms of the ladies who were gratefully waiting to share their wine with them. He was tired. He was cross. He longed to curl up in the corner near the hearth with a bowl of honeyed dates and a large tome. It reminded him of the time that Gabriel had smilingly told him he was made for Earth in a manner that meant it was the most backhanded compliment he could manage without actually striking him and Aziraphale felt— at the moment— he wasn’t even suited for that.

It wasn’t as if he lacked the complete ability to make friends! He’d certainly had a handful over the centuries! It was just these knights…lords and ladies alike, expected something else from him. Something he couldn’t quite wrap his head around— He supposed he ought to try. To keep trying. Succeed or Fail this was a Mission and so—

“Oh, for Satan’s sake, stop. Just watching you is excruciating.”

No phantasm this time, the voice near his left shoulder managed to lift and crush his spirits at the same time He knotted his fingers together in front of him and straightened his shoulders. Of course Crowley had an attitude. That was his job as a demon to cast doubt and wear down his confidence. Not that he had much to begin with.

“And just how long have you been here.” Aziraphale said with as much ice in his voice, and his heart, that he could muster. He definitely didn’t care what the demon thought about his approach. Or that he’d so closely seen his failure.

“Long enough for it to hurt,” Crowley said. “But it’s not your fault, Angel. Humans like these? They’re fighters, warriors, and more to the point warriors and fighters itching to prove themselves in a tourney. If you’re not speaking of swords, mead or dancing, they don’t care.”

It was like the clouds had broken and wan sunlight shifted through. Not his fault, oh, how he longed to hang onto those words. They sounded so true, even considering their source.

“Well… I have never been terribly good at speaking to warriors. At least not ones with their teeth in it.” He sighed a little, looking out over the merry making, feeling oddly alone in the sea of humanity. “One would think I would be better about that sort of thing. I am classically trained, you know.”

“Is that what you wanted to do?”

“Mm. I never much thought about it.” He had been Assigned and so he’d Done. “What—” He stopped himself as it occurred to him asking: ‘what did you do’ would be an incredibly gauche question. Fortunately he was able to change midstream as he glanced at the demon. “—are you up to?”

He had expected Crowley in his tunic with the deep cowl, or perhaps even armor— but he had changed yet again. He wore a court dress of a deep black plush material, with a red collar and red thread at the shoulders of the long sleeves. A green silk belt was knotted around his narrow waist and his very long hair was braided and bound in small gold cords. He was temptation personified standing there, long thick hair a barely contained tumble of flickering flame and winking gold.

“I’m up to the same thing you are, angel,” said Crowley, lifting a cup of mead to his lips. “Working.” His dark brows rose over the rim of his dark glasses and he tilted his head to the cup as if asking if Aziraphale wanted any. And, oh, he did. He would love to have a cup of mead and to sit in a quiet corner to watch and observe. But he was _working_ and he would not be tempted from it. He shook his head.

“No….thank you.”

“Well that’s one thing against you right there,” said Crowley. “Everyone here is getting absolutely tossed to the bear. No one is going to like you standing there sober and judging them.”

“Tossed to the bear?”

“Drunk. Even the nobility. Look at that one over there.” Crowley didn’t so much have to point when Belvedere laughed, wild and unchecked, his great booming voice seeming to vibrate in the air. A vaguely familiar woman was standing beside him and after a moment, Aziraphale recognized her.

“She’s with you, isn’t she?” But then. “Didn’t she have a beard?” He seemed to remember it that way…

“Didn’t suit her.” Crowley shrugged. Leaned in closer. “But she knows what she’s doing, and I’m telling you, Angel.” He leaned in closer so that Aziraphale could feel the brush of his breath. “They’d like you a lot better if you fit in, if they saw you sit by the hearth with someone with a cup of wine… a few oysters…”

And there did seem to be a quiet nook right there by the hearth with two empty stools just waiting, not far from where the unfortunate Byzantinian was serving his oysters. It would be lovely to sit there with shellfish and mulled wine and pleasant company.

“What do you say?” Crowley murmured.

“Oh, yes… that would be— Now wait just a moment!” He straightened as the realization struck him. He whirled on Crowley. “Are you trying to tempt _me_?”

“Is it working?” said the demon sounding absolutely unperturbed. The fact that it almost _had_ sent a stinging rush to Aziraphale’s cheeks.

“It is _not_. Not even a little.” Well perhaps a little fib to a demon wasn’t too unworthy of him. “And perhaps I’m not meant to fit in. And I’m here to judge and set a good example. As you are here to set a bad one.” He rolled his neck and folded his hands in front of him. “So, begone, demon. Go work your wiles as you choose. I can tell you that my good work shall not be undone by your temptations.” He hoped.

“Alright,” said Crowley in a completely different sort of voice. “Alright, but can I talk to you later?”

“No.” Because it sounded like the beginnings of a conversation they’d already had and he already refused to be a part of it. “I am _through_ talking to you.”

He turned to go, to settle in his mind something a little more permanent. Honestly, he shouldn’t even be civil to the demon at all. They were _enemies_. The past, well, was the past and if Camelot was such a pivotal part of the future he owed it to the Almighty to make it as grand as could be. That met no consorting with the lower orders. It certainly meant resisting any kind of temptation and it was about time he—

“Angel…”

Aziraphale paused, stopped almost by a force outside of himself. The nickname, if you could call it that, was nothing out of the ordinary and yet… There was something to it, almost a plea, or perhaps a hint of rare vulnerability. For a moment Aziraphale was reminded of Mesopotamia and long red hair lifting in the breeze. Or when he spotted him in Babel and they had raised hands to another in a gesture of— well —of something.

He ought not to succumb to those words. Ought not to be tempted.

And yet—

And yet he had to be careful, Aziraphale thought. There was Myrddin by the wall, half in shadow. The Druid watched with cunning eyes and, even if he didn’t know the full situation, would know enough to misconstrue and cause trouble. Also somewhere a resentful Gawain who was young enough to be impulsive. Aziraphale thought a moment, then, knowing he’d regret it, turned back to Crowley once more.

“I will speak with you,” Aziraphale murmured. “But not here. Not now.” In a burst of inspiration, he removed the rose from his belt and tucked it into Crowley’s. The velvet of the dress brushed softly against his knuckles and he had the sudden urge to press his fingers against it, to feel the softness and the heat just underneath. He resisted that urge partly because it would be entirely inappropriate and secondly Crowley seemed to be taken aback and perhaps slightly annoyed given the angry flush about his cheeks.

“I shall send my boy Daffyd to come find you tonight. Wear this so he may know you and he will lead you to me so we can talk.” He frowned and folded his hands together. “But it’s _just_ talk, Crowley. And I certainly can’t promise anything.” 

“Ngk. Sure.” The demon guzzled his mead which seemed a dismissal of sorts and he turned once more into the room, walking away and trying to tell himself to read the room, to keep his guard up should anyone seek his attention or need his guidance.

Of course, no one did. Everyone went about their business and he found he cold easily tuck himself in a corner with a drink and an oyster or two and no one seemed to miss him, or in fact notice he was there. Perhaps he would get a spot of mead or wine after all, perhaps it _would_ help as Crowley had suggested.

“Pardon me—” He said to an approaching servant bearing goblets of steaming wine. “I think I’ll—” But the man passed him and, Aziraphale turning to speak again and grab his attention found the words caught in his throat. There was Crowley once more, caught in the firelight of the hearth, red hair gleaming like embers. He moved among the humans like one of the so-called fair folk, both beautiful and dangerous and drew their attention like moths to a flame. He had to admit a part of him was drawn too. Aesthetically anyway. He rubbed his knuckles where he could remember the brush of heated velvet and knew… knew how their conversation this night would have to go.

Whatever they were—

Whatever they were it had to stop.

They had to become true enemies here and perhaps forevermore.

A terrible loneliness rose in him that he quashed back down at once. The demon seemed to look at him then and Aziraphale turned his gaze away, headed further into the room.

He was not here to make friends, nor keep strange dalliances with the other side. He was here to work—!

…For as long as Camelot stood. 

////\\\\\\\

Crowley paced back and forth in the empty Great Hall, dark now except for the sliver of watery moonlight that came in through the high windows. Anxiety knotted in the back of his throat and the damn rose pricked him at every turn. He shouldn’t be anxious. Everything was going, if not perfectly, at least better than he had ever thought it would.

Sure the rain had tapered off near the end of the day instead of lasting all week like he’d hoped it would and sure the sight of the sunrise had roused the humans to good will and cheer instead of continuing the increasingly dour mood, he’d take that hit. Frankly he was surprised the rain had lasted as long as it did, having to fight Camelot’s own brand of…whatever—aura— that hung about the place.

The next day would be bright and sunny and the humans could get to it with charging at each other , breaking bones and risking possible mutilation in the name of sport, which couldn’t be a _bad_ thing, at least not where Hell was concerned.

Other things going his way included the successful integration of his minions into the castle staff, Harriet as his lady in waiting, Slow Richard as a jester, Two Drink Tom as— okay well, he might have thought through a little better making him a steward as last he’d seen the man he was completely tossed to the bear, had stripped naked and had gone out into the night talking about small clothes, which means they’d be up to their teeth in loincloths in the morning. He’d even bribed foul ol’ Jon with the smelliest fish he could conjure up to tramp about in the suit of armor for a few days. The only hiccup really was the exorbitant use of power he’d used to get the oyster man here. Hell might have something to say about _that_ , but the audit was seven hundred years overdue and he seriously doubted they were going to start in on it now. Well and leaving Nyxx out in the forest without telling him what was going on. That was going to take a great deal of explaining when the horse caught up with him.

Other than that, everything was great. Except for the bloody thorn, everything is going more or less according to plan. All he has to do is to convince the angel to go along with it.

A noise on the thresh hold, the rustle of footsteps, Crowley gathers his skirts in his hands and turns, expecting to see the angel there waiting, gleaming in the slant of moonlight. Or Daffyd, whoever he is, but it is nothing. No one. Or people too far away and therefore had no business with him. Crowley cursed and resumed pacing.

Now all he had left to do was talk to Aziraphale, to tell him his idea in a way the angel couldn’t immediately say no to. Frankly he wasn’t even sure how he’d managed to get Aziraphale to even agree to this. The oysters hadn’t worked. The angel hadn’t even touched them, just wandered about the room trying to be friendly to people who just found him increasingly annoying. Bastards. They didn’t know what they had, who they had on their side. Which— was good from Crowley’s side of things, and actually he should encourage it, especially with Hell breathing down his neck.

But maybe tomorrow.

Or sometime next week.

Or maybe never if this scheme worked out.

Only if he knew what he said he could repeat it. He _had_ to repeat it. The angel had told him no so many times he thought he was screwed six ways to Ragnarok, but then, an unexpected yes… and this… He gently touched the flower at his waist, wincing again at the prickle of thorn. And, Satan, the unexpected touch, warm fingers that he could feel just under the velvet, had nearly made him swallow his own tongue. Must have been a holy touch or something because his stomach still burned a little from it when he thought about it— well not burned, warmed, coupled with the memory of all of his insides lurching upward at once. Worst part was he’d wanted it to happen again.

Dangerous thought that was.

That thought could get a demon in more than just hot water.

They were still enemies after all. Enemies with a capital E. Aziraphale could only be pushed so far before he pushed back. Crowley knew he had to be careful, knew he had to be aware. Maybe the angel might be pleasant to him and maybe even get drunk with him— but they’d never been so directly opposed as they were now.

And really when he looked at it, this plan had a snowball’s chance in hell of working.

Maybe it had failed already given how long it was taking. It had to be past Midnight now. Should he just cut and run? Say sod it and think of something else?

Nah, he’d give him a little more time. Maybe once the moon had set. Couldn’t well sneak out with the moon still up could he?

‘Course it could be the angel didn’t want to see him at all. He might have overdone it. Had probably overdone it. He’d thought the oysters would have put him over the top, but the angel hadn’t touched even a single one. Of course he hadn’t, couldn’t tempt an angel, could you? Aziraphale was probably insulted by the thought. And now he was going to offer an even greater temptation.

He would go to the angel, if Aziraphale deigned to see him, and tell him ‘what if I can stop a war’? Smooth as silk, take that responsibility right out of his hands. With luck the angel would give him a grateful look, blue eyes brimming with relief and say:

‘Oh, thank you, Crowley! However can I repay you from saving me from this ghastly fate?’

And he would say in a dark, sinister voice, full of promise.

‘Work with me, Angel, just for a little while.’ He would hold out his hand and, trembling slightly, the angel would look up at him with tender, trusting eyes, and say:

‘I told you, no!’

And promptly boot him over the wall into the comically placed pig-sty.

Shit, this was never going to work. Of course this was never going to work. It would be too easy if it worked. If he could just get Aziraphale to work _with_ him, they could — he didn’t know— He didn’t know but he knew that was the starting point, that the rest would spool out from there. Somehow, together, they would be able to leave this ruddy city in the dust and not have it flattened by Botis or else be in the middle of some holy war that it, the surrounding country side, and quite probably himself, wouldn’t survive.

So it had to work.

If Aziraphale would see him.

He would give it another watch. As soon as the next watch was called he’d go up and find the angel himself.

In his mind he played the conversation over and over, imagining all the ways it could come out, but most of them ended in Aziraphale raising his hand to smite him, surrounded by holy light, white wings flared. It was a terrifying image but also a strangely compelling one and he was trying to dig it out of his head when: 

“My Lady?” A small voice echoed too large in the enclosed space, distracting him . Crowley turned and saw a boy dressed dove gray, peering at him anxiously. “My Lord will see you now.”

Crowley didn’t trust himself to speak. He took a deep breath, feeling the prick of the damned thorn, and nodded, crossing across the space toward the boy. It would be fine, he told himself as he followed the boy out into the narrow wooden hallway. He just had to keep his confidence and cool, convince him, tempt him with the greatest temptation he’d ever concocted, but not too slimy, not too cocky, just dangle the fruit in front of him and see if he would take it on accident. Yeah… Yeah that would work.

The boy stopped so suddenly that Crowley nearly ran into him.

“Are—”

“Shhh!” and then whispered. “Please, Lady.”

Crowley shh’d if only because the boy’s anxiety seemed to kick up a notch. Around the corner he he heard footsteps and then a woman:

“If you wish to say something, dear Sir, than say it.” There was something decidedly caustic about the: ‘dear, Sir’, so much so that Crowley was surprised he didn’t hear the resultant hiss of acid.

“Forgive me my silent astonishment,” said the man in a voice dripping with sarcasm. “I did not expect the roses of the Queen to fall so lightly.”

The sound of a slap rang through the air and Crowley winced. The boy cringed.

“My Queen! Guinevere! I apologize, please-!”

Footsteps were moving rapidly their way. The boy made a startled squeak and backed into Crowley. Crowley gripped his shoulder to keep him there and clicked his fingers. The Queen passed them without seeing, without even looking into the darkening shadows. After a moment the other set of footsteps lead away too and a door shut. The boy breathed a sigh of relief and Crowley dropped his hand. Already discord in the castle, did the angel know about this? Should Crowley tell him?

Absolutely not, telling him would be an incredibly asinine thing to. He should keep quiet and let it play out to his advantage. That would be smart. That would be something a demon who didn’t want to be violently discorporated would do.

“We should go, my Lady,” the boy whispered.

Once again out into the hallway and Crowley built himself up, tried to put the troubled thoughts behind him. Cool and suave, he reminded himself. To tempt like he never had before. He lifted his head, narrowed his eyes, let a cool smile play along his lips. The boy lead him out side into the cool spring night, the moon a thin white slice in a sky speckled with stars. There was a garden path, lined with roses, and in the center of the garden near a stone fountain…

Crowley had stopped in place, frozen in place, stuck fast to the cobblestone. Aziraphale stood there, lifting a rose blossom in delicate fingers and inhaling the fragrance, eyes closed in pleasure. He wore a soft white cloak and hood that seemed to gleam in the moonlight, pinned in place by the silver winged broach that Crowley had last seen in Rome. The soft folds of the white toga shifted softly over his form, brushing against his ankles.

He was an angel, Crowley told himself frantically. He was supposed to be luminously beautiful to beckon all souls to Good. There was nothing to get excited over. He reminded himself what would happen if he failed. Demon army, ripping through the world, ravaging the countryside. Not that Crowley had anything against ravaging and etcetera on principle, but then the bloody Host would come and everyone would be fucked.

Right. He rolled his shoulders. To work.

“Lord Aziraphale?” the boy said. The angel’s eyes opened, he rose, clasping his hands in front of him, gold ring gleaming softly. Crowley commanded his legs they had better straighten up if they knew what was good for them.

“Good evening, Crowley…” he said. He had to say something. Anything. Words. Words needed to come.

“Angel.”

The word had come out cool, collected, completely unflapped. He could do this.

The boy took half a step back.

“You may go retire now, Daffyd,” said Aziraphale kindly. “Thank you.”

“My Lady, My Lord.” The boy made a deep bow and hurried off.

“My Lady,” Aziraphale said, a hint of mockery to his voice that Crowley was both irritated and amused by. Was Aziraphale being snarky? He didn’t think angels were meant to be snarky. “It seems you are the talk of the feast. The mysterious lady of the green.”

“Yeah, well, you know humans, show up out of the blue and they can’t get enough of you.” He strode closer, boldly, and pretended to be interested in one of the roses, lifting it as if inspecting it, feeling the angel’s eyes on him. He was tempted to turn it black just for the aesthetics of it, but then the flower looked as fragile as Phoenician glass in the moonlight so he left it alone. 

“Any luck on your end?” he continued even knowing the answer.

“No…” Aziraphale sighed and looked away. “I’m afraid I’m not very good at socializing with them yet. It was easy in Byzantium, have a meal, see a drama, walk sunlit boulevards and chat. People seemed more inclined to do good. Granted I wasn’t hip by jowl with them or expected to fulfill a certain role…”

Crowley smirked, letting the rose go and pacing around Aziraphale instead, who was much more interesting to look at. The hood of the robe, he noticed, had faint silver feathers embroidered on it.

“The Rainbow Knight,” he said, hitting the sardonic tone just right on the first go. The angel’s mouth twisted into a moue of a pout.

“So you’ve heard that song, have you?”

“Considering how often the bard sung it, it was hard to avoid.” It was catchy as hell too, that was the best part of it. It was kind of hilarious, really. He could picture it in his mind’s eye. “I mean, I like it, especially the part where you take the fish sword and—”

“Yes, Crowley, I’ve heard it, thank you.” Aziraphale sniffed, then sighed deeply, the sadness returning to his face so deeply that Crowley wished he would have snapped the lute in half rather than enjoying it so much. “But they are right you know, in a sense. And you are right as well. I am not one of them and they can see that.”

“Well, you’re an angel, aren’t you? Supposed to be above them and all that?” The words didn’t seem to perk Aziraphale up even a little and Crowley frowned. It was a good thing, wasn’t it? A discouraged angel and all that— great for Hell, he could get commendations galore. Only he couldn’t get himself to care. He cared a whole Heaven of a lot about what Hell would do to him if they found out but somehow there were more important things.

“An angel, hm….not a very good one, I should think.” Aziraphale threaded his fingers together. “Were Gabriel here this whole place would be ablaze with holy light.”

“Hard on the economy, blazing light,” said Crowley. “Tends to spook the horses.”

Aziraphale let out a chuckle, more of a breath with some hint of laugh added really. Crowley suddenly realized how much he just wanted to see the angel relax. Suddenly he wanted it more than anything in the world. Maybe he could, just for a little while. Botis wasn’t going to come riding tonight anyway and it would be nice for once to leave Heaven and Hell and Humanity behind and be something else.

Be someone else.

Far away on the wall the watchman called the second hour.

“It’s late,” Aziraphale said at roughly the same time Crowley had the courage to ask:

“Want to get a drink?”

Aziraphale drew a breath, and for a moment Crowley thought he might say yes. Or maybe he was hoping he would say yes. It was only the space of a heartbeat, the catch of a breath, he could feel his fingers tense in his skirts. The angel’s face creased. Crowley could sense the ‘no’, like the electricity that tinged the air just before a lightning strike.

“I mean… no one is even awake right now except the guards. No one to tempt for good or evil. Even you can’t possibly do good this early in the morning.”

“Oh…” Aziraphale clenched his fingers, frowning down at them. “I don’t know, Crowley. Actually, I do have something to talk to you about—”

“So talk to me about it over drinks.” In a burst of inspiration, he clicked his fingers. “There, I’ve just got a servant out of bed to bring us some. Do you really want to say his journey is a waste?”

The little pout returned. Crowley hoped it was a good sign.

“You are an absolute cretin,” Aziraphale said and Crowley couldn’t help but grin.

“What can I say, Angel? It’s a talent.”

“Mm.” Those blue eyes flashed a judgmental look that seemed as strong as any lightning strike. “Very well, but you can’t expect me to stand around and drink, I’ve had quite enough of that and if I’m to enjoy myself I refuse to be a barbarian about it.”

“Can’t have that, can we,” said Crowley mockingly.

“Certainly we can’t,” said Aziraphale as if he hadn’t noticed.

A click of the fingers and a burst of infernal power later and two dining couches as might have been found in the older days of Rome grew up out of the ground.

“Nothing to set our drinks upon?”

Another click and a table grew in the center. They were all a brownish black, expected given they were made out of roots. He noted, pleased, that the top of the table had a carving of roses in it, but subtle, practically blending into the wood. This was a table with style. Aziraphale hummed and paced around the couch, testing it with his fingertips. A click of his own fingers and a cluster of white pillows appeared, as well as a bolster to rest his arm against. Crowley noted with some surprise that his had received the same cushions.

Of course it was probably just an angel thing, he thought, glad that the night hid the heat in his face. He perched himself on the cushions which were cloud soft, because of course they were. Crowley tried to ignore how the thorn in his belt pricked his belly while a hidden thorn in the dining couch pricked his back. 

“Goodness, now this is proper dining.” Aziraphale lounged, seeming to have no problems with thorns whatever. Crowley did not at all notice the way his silvery cloak fell over his hip or the way the edge of his toga rode up, revealing a swath of his calf. What were calves anyway? He’d seen plenty. 

“Well not really dining,” the angel continued. “Just drinks. Although…” Crowley found himself pinned by that blue gaze. “There are some grapes in the cellar that would make an awfully nice accompaniment.”

“Your wish is my command.” A click.

“And some delightful cheese…” Another click.

“Oh and you know, I’ve heard wonderful things about Cook’s berry tarts that she refuses to let anyone have before the tourney.”

“I’ve seen that Cook, she’s terrifying.” It was partly why he’d decided not to send anyone undercover in the kitchens. Even Hell had little on a six foot woman with a rolling pin and arms that could heft a steer with little effort.

“I know, but it would be such a nice treat…”

It wasn’t until the small table was fairly groaning with the weight of the food and the dazed servants had been sent back to bed and sweet dreams that Crowley started to realize something. It didn’t solidify until the angel went to take a sip from his silver goblet, made a face and then gave Crowley a doe eyed look. “A warm drink is always so much better on a chilly night like this, isn’t it?”

He gasped, sitting up straight, jabbing a finger in the angel’s direction.

“You’re using me! Admit it!”

He expected the angel to deny it, perhaps even have a fit of faith, maybe even an apology. He didn’t expect the sly smirk that crept over that angelic face and the way he sunk back to somehow look at Crowley down his nose, despite the fact that he was far lower down.

“Whatever gave you that idea?” said Aziraphale in the lazy tones of someone who was being an absolute shit and knew it.

He should be angry, but he couldn’t help but be impressed. It had been so subtle, so sneaky— besides which he was a sodding angel! Angels didn’t do things like that! Even worse Aziraphale could have summoned up all of it himself, but instead had had Crowley use up a burst of power. Not that Hell didn’t have it in spades and he could always write it off as a business expense, but it was the principle of the thing.

That _bastard_.

And, Crowley thought as Aziraphale held out his goblet to him and he touched it until a light steam began to rise from the wine, if he didn’t keep his head about this, he’d be completely fucked. He didn’t know in what way but he knew it. If before he was falling, now he could see the ground rushing up to meet him and if he was clever he would flare his wings and skirt over it rather than smashing into it.

“Salutaria.” Aziraphale raised his goblet.

“Salutaria.” Crowley raised his as well, warming it in an instant and taking a long guzzle of the wine. If he wanted a clear head, he’d need all the alcohol he could get.

“I will say you certainly seem to be in a markedly better mood then our last encounter, in Rome,” said Aziraphale. A faint frown played about his lips. “In truth I was a bit worried.”

There was not enough wine on this earth. Especially not since Crowley nearly choked on it. Worried about him?

The angel was—?

Had been—?

They were enemies, Satan bless it! You couldn’t just say that to an enemy! You couldn’t just care about an enemy! That was a war crime somewhere he was sure! He tried to shove that out of his mind, to tuck it all the way in the back with the spider webs and the regrets and the things he didn’t say but wished he had and the memories that surfaced sometimes around blind corners and tried to strip his flesh from his hones from the inside out.

“Yeah, well,” Crowley said, voice gruff. “It was this same situation.” He gestured vaguely about the garden and stole a grape. “There I was, ready to go elbow deep in evil, but the humans had thought it all up themselves. Caligula was _disgusting,_ Angel! Demons could learn a lesson from him.” It didn’t make sense, it really didn’t. What was the _point_ of being a demon if humans were going to do worse to themselves?

“I would think you’d be more appreciative of him since you do seem so hell bent avoiding work, pardon the expression.” Aziraphale punctuated this sanctimonious sentence with a sip of his wine and a raise of his eyebrows. Crowley was very comfortable in hating him at that moment and tried to nurture the feeling into something a little more.

“Like you aren’t enjoying lying there drinking wine and being superior.” He rested his cheek on his knuckles and glowered at the angel. “Admit it, you’re enjoying yourself.”

“Of course I’m enjoying myself, present company excluded.” That was a dig and Crowley knew it but couldn’t think up more to do than snort as Aziraphale popped a grape into his mouth. “But I have a work ethic.”

“Ha!”

“I do.” His voice was chilly. “You might not recognize it because you don’t have it yourself—”

“Apple guarding duty.”

“Well, I hardly expected that there would be any interference from—”

“Tower of Babel.”

“That was a miscommunication! Anyway, I didn’t even see you there, and—”

“Then there was this suspiciously wealthy stuffed date merchant.”

“I was not meant to _engage_ with our Young Master, just observe.”

“Yeah, observe by causing a date shortage,” Crowley said, dry as the desert as he took a drink of wine. Aziraphale sniffed.

“I hardly need to explain myself to you. In fact, I shouldn’t even be talking to you.”

No, wait, shit—

“If you didn’t you’d never know what I was planning.”

Aziraphale had sat up as if he was in an instant from getting to his feet. Instead he paused, blinked, and his eyes narrowed shrewdly.

“And what are you up to.”

Good THEMdamned question. Crowley stretched out on the dining couch as if his heart wasn’t racing faster than the wind.

“That’s for me to know and you to find out,” he said lazily, propping one foot up on the edge of the dining couch. He was proud of himself for the steadiness of his voice. An annoyed hum came from the angel’s pursed lips, but then he eased back onto the couch and Crowley’s nerves eased with him.

“I will find out what it is, you know, and I’ll put a stop to it. You will be thoroughly thwarted.”

“You’ll just have to keep a close eye on me then, won’t you.”

“I shall!” And he grumpily picked up a tart, set it back down again, picked it up, set it back down, as if he couldn’t decide whether or not he was allowed to eat it. Maybe it was the demon in him but Aziraphale’s hesitation drove him right up the bloody wall. Why did Aziraphale think he had to hold himself above these things? What kind of bastard said: here is this world full of delicious food that I’m going to force you to work in but you’d better not partake in any of it.

Same bastard that set a fruit tree in a garden.

“You are on break, you know,” he reminded the angel after the fifth time. “You’re allowed.”

“Heaven doesn’t think too highly of breaks, I’m afraid.”

“Well they’re not down here, are they?” said Crowley. “They don’t have to work among humans every day. You need to take care of yourself before you can take care of other people.” He looked at the angel over the rim of the dark glasses. “Anyway, like I told you, if you loosen up a little, they’ll accept you.”

“I’m certainly not ‘loosening up’ for their sakes. I have _standards_.” It was so huffy and haughty, so superciliously angelic that Crowley was both annoyed and charmed all at once. And while he was struggling to deal with that squirming mess of conflicting emotions— Aziraphale bit into the pastry and he forgot to think at all.

Aziraphale’s eyes slipped closed and a low moan of appreciation melted out into the night air. The roses around them seemed to bloom even wider, quite a few of them turned red. Crowley was only tangentially aware of this as he watched the angel sink back onto the couch, head resting on the bolster, lashes fanned against his cheeks.

“This is _divine_.”

“Yeah,” Crowley found himself agreeing. Fortunately, the angel didn’t seem to hear him, just finished the rest of the tart in tender little bites, teeth sinking into the bread and the gleam of berries just underneath.

It was a bloody good thing Aziraphale was an angel because if he was a demon, no one in heaven or hell or humanity would be able to stand a chance.

After a moment which seemed to last an eternity, Aziraphale licked the last crumb from his lower lip and turned heavy lidded eyes to Crowley who didn’t know if he wanted to lean toward him or flee the garden. He opted to stay if only because he knew his legs wouldn’t support him.

“But, you know,” Aziraphale said with a kind of wistful sadness. “I don’t suppose I shall ever ‘fit in’, even if were the most brutish person on Earth. I’m not really meant to, you know, but how can I set a good example without resorting to…” He waved a hand. “…Rigamarole.”

All of a sudden, Crowley knew just what to do.

The answer was as simple as a tart lying on a serving dish.

He rose, ignoring the damn pricking against his belly, and moved around the head of the dining couch, watching Aziraphale lazily trace his movements. There was something about those eyes on him that made him want to be even more a temptress than he had been before, that put silk in his voice and when he ran his fingers along the black edge of the dining couch, perilously close to a linen clad hip, it felt just right.

“What if I told you, you don’t have to fit in?”

Aziraphale tilted his head slightly, cautious, guarded.

“I’m just saying.” He was at the table now and rested a hip against it as he smirked down at the man. “I can make you look good. Holy. You can be however you like and within a fortnight’s time they’ll see you as a saint.” Okay maybe he was playing it up a bit but he was banking on Aziraphale not noticing.

“And in exchange?” said Aziraphale, face unreadable. This wouldn’t work, Crowley knew. It couldn’t work. He had tried twice before and the angel had been steadfast in turning it down. This time wouldn’t be any different. Or would it? He kept his expression smug.

“You make me look bad.” He sipped his wine, and then the motivation. “I mean, if we’re going to be here canceling each other out for the next few--” centuries? Nah, too long and too depressing. “—decades, we should at least pace ourselves.”

“Hmmm…”

Was he considering it?

Crowley had one last morsel to tease out. To make or break this deal.

“Of course we’d have to talk to each other so you might have to resign yourself to another night like this. Wine. Company.” He stole a tart from Aziraphale’s questing fingers. “Food.” And nibbled at the corner.

It was delicious, he had to admit, though he wasn’t one to swoon over tasty treats. The best part of it was Aziraphale’s annoyed look as he polished it off, complete with licking a dab of jam from his finger.

Aziraphale looked away, bit at his lower lip, swirled his wine, drank it. The silence seemed to stretch on and Crowley found it difficult to stay still. Yes or no, he wanted to say. He wanted to push further, to think of something else to sweeten the deal. He wanted an answer. But he let Aziraphale take his time, studying his face, his movements, trying to anticipate what it would be.

Finally, Aziraphale set his wine aside and sat up, pulling the pale blue hood over his head, which only made his hair whiter and gave Crowley a searching look.

“Alright, but a trial run only. And if I find you hiding something, you fiend, I shall be very put out.” And he held out his hand.

It was a dangerous game. Crowley was hiding something, Botis for one, but also intentions for another. Something to get them both free of this place and out— exploring the world, enjoying the world. He didn’t know what put out meant, but every opportunity came with risk and Crowley took it. He clasped Aziraphale’s forearm in the old Roman style, feeling the angel grip his and knowing the undeniable strength of that hand.

The hold was brief enough, but strangely even after the angel had let go, a slow burning sensation curled through Crowley’s forearm, not painful, but maybe a lingering holy presence telling him to be careful, to tread lightly.

“Well, I had better go…” Aziraphale stood and then before Crowley could think to stop him, wicked the rose right from his belt. The thorns didn’t even seem to touch him, despite his thumb resting just underneath the curve of one. Maybe they didn’t dare. Crowley wanted it back suddenly, though why he had no idea.

“I shall send Daffyd with this when we are to meet.” He tapped the rose against Crowley’s chin. There was no prick of thorn now, instead it was the even more dangerous heady perfume of a rose in the hand of an angel. Crowley tried not to breathe in too deeply. “So don’t go far,” Aziraphale continued. “It can’t be good for the poor boy to go a’wandering at night.”

“Not far…” Crowley echoed. “No a’wandering, got it.”

A faint smile seemed to lift the corners of that pretty pink mouth and then he turned, the swirl of cloak stirring up scent and a faint breeze brushing over Crowley’s ankles. He’d waited until the angel had left the garden and then sat on the dining couch, feeling a slight prickle against his back but hardly noticing.

Something had changed this night.

Something new and terrifying and exciting had begun…

And he had started it here…

In this garden full of roses, under a sky full of stars.


End file.
